


Pick a man. Bring your kit.

by WafflesRisa



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Brotherhood, Fix-it fic, Gen, Groundhog Day, Hurt/Comfort, Scho is barely managing to cope, Scho wakes up next to the tree at the beginning, Scho will get Blake through this alive by the force of sheer will, Time Loop, Whump, William schofield whump, confused and worried blake, determined Scho, friendship fluff, i promise it will end happily you just got to get through the whump, lots of gen fluff, lots of hugging and comforting and supporting, tom blake whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22682791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WafflesRisa/pseuds/WafflesRisa
Summary: Schofield wakes up.  Come hell or high water, he is going to make sure Blake lives.  Even if it's by sheer force of will.A fix-it fic where Schofield wakes up in a time loop, freaks out, compartmentalises, and finishes the mission.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield
Comments: 411
Kudos: 462





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've written anything at all, but I am obsessed with 1917, Schofield and Blake. Have at it.

At the end of it all, Schofield closes his eyes and rests his aching head against the bark of the old oak tree. A damp chill begins to settle in his bones, and his bandaged left hand throbs with his heart. 

Schofield breathes quiet, even breaths. The early morning sunlight is a warm orange on the inside of his eyelids. Less than a day ago, he had been sitting just so against a different tree, with Blake beside him fast asleep. _Blake. _Schofield feels himself begin to drift, and allows the deep soul-ache darkness to swallow him whole-__

__-“Pick a man. Bring your kit.”_ _

__“Yes, Sarge.”_ _

__Schofield jerks awake with a gasping shudder, eyes wild. A drowned man resurfacing – the world spins. “Blake?” The name is bare whisper of air past his lips._ _

__“Guess you’re volunteering then, Sco?” Blake stands over Schofield, his open, youthful face full of good humour. Schofield stares up at him dumbly, disbelieving._ _

__Blake holds out his hand expectantly. “Well, up you get. Sarge said to bring our kit.”_ _

__Schofield reaches up, trembling slightly, and allows Blake to heave him up to his feet. The warmth of Blake’s palm against his sends a wild frisson of hope through him. His eyes focus. The world sharpens in a burst of frightening clarity. Schofield takes in his surroundings – the sleeping men, the grass in the wind, the tree, the long winding path to the trench, the Sergeant’s dwindling figure getting farther away._ _

__“How?”_ _

__Blake looks back at him, fiddling with his pack webbing, bemused. “How what?”_ _

__“You were-” Schofield breaks off with a sharp inhale, and presses his lips into a thin line. Best not to say it out loud. Whatever this is, however it came to be – maybe saying it out loud would cause it to shatter like glass._ _

__“Don’t dawdle!” The Sergeant calls over his shoulder._ _

__Schofield snatches up his pack and falls into step next to his friend. The dirt path narrows on either side of them as Schofield’s deft fingers check through his equipment with increasing alacrity. Charger clips – fully restocked, down to the last bullet. Scarf, tunic, leather jacket, webbing, belt. Tin box – closed, untouched. Dry ham and bread – the exact same provisions he had had on him that morning –_ _

__“-you alright?” Blake gives him a quizzical look. Receiving no answer, he tries again as they pass the mess tents. “Did they feed-”_ _

__“No.” Schofield pushes the ham and bread, all of it, the whole piece, into Blake’s hands._ _

__Delighted, Blake scarfs most of it down in three ravenous bites. Schofield watches Blake, intelligent grey eyes flitting over him, observing silently, even now hardly daring to hope. Maybe it had all been a dream? A dark, terrifying dream._ _

__Blake stops abruptly at the last morsel. “But didn’t you want any, Sco?” He holds out the remaining bite with a hint of guilt, mouth full. Schofield smiles in spite of himself, and shakes his head._ _

__Blake warms at his friend’s smile and sends back a sunny grin. He licks the crumbs off his own fingers. “Tastes like old shoe.” He laughs._ _

__The smile slips off Schofield’s face as a chill goes through him. Blake had said that before._ _

__Maybe it hadn’t been a dream. Maybe it had been real? Maybe-_ _

__-The trench walls rise to engulf them as they plunge into the mud of the line trench. Schofield slips into an almost dissociative haze in which every single detail of his surroundings leaps out at him from memory. As if through a pane of clear glass, he watches General Erinmore give the same orders, point at the same map, the same photographs. Any questions? No, sir. The same bull-headed reply from Blake, hands balled up tight – Schofield’s heart twists. The same supplies. Schofield’s hands move seemingly of their own accord, tucking the goods away. He follows Blake’s frantic footsteps through the down trench, his heart thudding hollow in his ears._ _

__

__It’s the same. It’s the exact same. Schofield shoves down the rising panic clawing its way up his chest by sheer force of will.__

__

____And then Lieutenant Leslie splashes them with whiskey, and Blake has a hand on the earthen bank leading to no-man’s land, fear turning his knuckles white._ _ _ _

__

____A grim, calm clarity descends on Schofield. Suddenly certain of reality, he reaches for Blake’s shoulders, looking straight at him. “Listen to me.”_ _ _ _

__

____Blake’s eyes are wet and red-rimmed. “I know what you’re going to say, and I won’t have it. I won’t. We can’t wait until dark, it’s my brother. It’s my big brother, Sco-” His voice breaks._ _ _ _

__

____“No.” Schofield says, firm and solid as stone. “We’ll go now.” Blake is all astonishment. Schofield presses his palms to the sides of Blake’s head and holds him, stilling him. “We’ll go now, and it’ll be alright, I promise. We’ll get there in time. And I’ll be with you, Blake. I’ll be with you all the way.” Blake stills under his hands. There’s a deep ringing certainty in Schofield’s words that seems to hearten him. Blake nods._ _ _ _

__

____Schofield straightens. Adjusts his helmet. “I’ll go first.”_ _ _ _

__

____And he climbs up over the top once more into Gehenna._ _ _ _

__


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 2, a little late - sorry!
> 
> Schofield is not coping well with the situation...

No man’s land.

The sour rust-iron reek of decaying flesh washes over Schofield. He hardly dares to breathe. The low mist claws at his face, wreathing it in white. 

Schofield fixes his gaze, wolf-like, on the gap in the barbed wire two score yards ahead.

Blake climbs up after him and draws alongside, boots sinking into the squelching mud. He mutters a low curse. Looks up at Schofield for reassurance – the one familiar sight in this forbidding vista. “Which way –” 

– But Schofield is already moving, crouched low, long, loping paces eating up the distance between the trench and the barbed wire. 

“What are you- Find cover!” Blake’s startled call behind him, from the lee of a crater. “Sco- for heaven’s sake stop going so bloody fast-” 

Schofield forgoes the shadowed craters with their putrid, half-floating bodies, and cuts straight for the gap in the wire. If this is really all happening again, then there are no German snipers waiting in the opposite trench. A raw recklessness rises unbidden in Schofield’s chest. And if his theory is wrong? Why, then all it matters is that the bullet must find him first, not Blake. Never Blake. 

He reaches the barbed wire. 

Two British fighter planes pass overhead in a thunder of sound. “Sco- Sco!” Blake’s urgent whisper is farther away behind him, made fainter by the distance between them.

Schofield whips his head round, eyes burning. “Stay close to me.” His voice cuts through the mist, sharp in the sudden silence after the roar of the planes.

Blake is startled at his friend’s face. Schofield is only half aware of what his expression must look like – an odd wildness, foreign to both of them. Blake hesitates, then scrambles up and out of his crater and half runs to Schofield, shoulders drawn tight. 

When he gets close enough, Schofield catches him by the sleeve. “Stay close to me,” Schofield repeats, almost harshly – but under his grip, Blake is trembling. Schofield softens. The strange wildness is suddenly gone. “Stay close,” he says once more, quietly. Blake nods, swallowing. 

Schofield takes a deep, steadying breath. He looks at the barbed wire, and an echoing ghost of pain throbs in left hand. “Let’s go.” 

Bracing his feet carefully, Schofield hooks his hand through the wire and holds it back as Blake slips through. Schofield follows, and as he does he nearly slips – the wire catches his tunic, but he lets go of it in time and passes through unscathed.

Schofield looks from the wire, to his unmarked hand, and back again. A grim smile rises on his lips, and he curls his fingers against his palm. One step at a time. 

Blake is already down the bank, rifle loose and ready. He looks back up at Schofield, waiting, expectant. He’s taken Schofield’s words to heart. Schofield swallows past the lump in his throat, and joins his friend. 

Together they creep carefully forward, almost shoulder to shoulder – Schofield a half-step ahead, steps uncannily sure as he edges past rotting pools to tread on firmer ground. Through the German wire – and they drop down into the German trench with soft thump. 

As expected – not a soul. Schofield takes a brief moment to get his bearings, his memory ragged, like a dream. Blake had always been the one that was good at directions, with maps and charts and the like. The comms trench? No, that had been a dead end – yes, the line trench. “This way.” Schofield jerks his head and starts off directly towards where he knows the entrance to the barracks will be.

“They really have gone.” Blake goggles at the neat cement walls, and swears under his breath. “Makes our trenches look like rat tunnels-”

“Hurry – in here.” Schofield pulls Blake after him into the shadowed dark of the underground barracks. Blake baulks for a moment at the pitch-blackness before flicking his torch on. 

Schofield’s voice is tight as he picks his way past the metal bunks. “Watch your step – there will be tripwires.” 

A moment of confusion crosses Blake’s face at the dark certainty in Schofield’s tone. “Sure, Sco.”

The flickering shadows cast by their torchlight lick at their quiet, careful steps. Schofield tries to bring the details of the dangers ahead to order in his mind. He is more aware than ever of his imperfect memory. The shatterpoints of their nightmare journey are vivid flashes on a dark tapestry, on which the intervening details stubbornly refuse to come into focus. 

Schofield’s breath quickens. How is he to protect Blake if he cannot remember all the details? A shiver passes down his spine. Control – what factors can he control ahead? Rats – tripwires – the mineshaft collapsing…the orchard – what was before the orchard? A quarry. Yes, a quarry. Orchard – farmhouse – milk – plane – PILOT – his fingers tighten involuntarily on his rifle – 

Blake’s whisper cuts through the turmoil of his thoughts. “Hey! There’s some stuff hung up over here. What do you think it is?”

Schofield snaps his head up in alarm. Blake stands ahead at the doorway of the storeroom, his back to Schofield, prodding at the hanging bags with his bayonet – 

“Blake!” Schofield hisses quietly, tearing up the remainder of the long barracks toward his friend. “Get away from the door! There’s a tripwire in that room!”

“Say again?” Blake turns his head to look back at Schofield, round face pale in the darkness. Behind him and through the doorway, a rat swings precariously on one of the bags.

Schofield’s heart thunders against his ribs as he skids to a stop next to Blake. He snatches at Blake’s collar and bodily drags him out of the doorway. “Tripwire!” he half-shouts almost in Blake’s ear, louder than he intended in his terror.

And in the corner of Schofield’s eye, the rat startles, dropping to the floor and darting to the darkness of the back doorway – 

Schofield swears out loud and chases after it, bringing the muzzle of his rifle around and firing – 

CRACK.

The rat squeals and writhes horribly in the dirt, pinned to the ground.

Sweet relief – Schofield whirls around in the tiny room and makes to grasp blindly for Blake, desperate for the firm assurance of holding on to him – 

– around Schofield, a dozen rats scurry blindly for cover, triggered by the echo of the gunshot. 

“No – NO – !”

Blake, half-starting forward to reach for Schofield’s outstretched hand – his look of absolute horror – 

And a thunderous wall of force smashes into the back of Schofield’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting rate is likely to be two chapters a week - you guys ok with that? Pacing will speed up a little in future chapters I think.
> 
> Comments would be most welcome - always up for a chat!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schofield reaches a breaking point.
> 
> TW for panic attacks, self-harm and suicide.
> 
> (Yeah, stuff really goes down in this chapter. If you don't want to read this chapter because of the TWs, message me and I'll give you a brief summary of the chapter.)

Schofield screams. 

In the pitch darkness, dust crawls like a living thing into his mouth and eyes and nostrils, choking and gagging him. 

The tiny part of Schofield’s mind that is still rational knows the tripwire has been triggered and he is buried yet again under the collapsed shaft in the German barracks. But that rational part of him is long gone – he screams feral, animalistic screams under the tremendous pressure of hundreds of sharp pieces of rubble and splinters of wood, digging and tearing into his flesh – no no No No NO NO NOT AGAIN NOT AGAIN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NO –

“SCO! SCO!”

Somewhere muffled and far above him, Blake’s voice echoes Schofield’s, shrieking his name over and over again, wild and desperate.

But Schofield is buried face down, deeper than before. And as the dust burns through his lungs and chokes him from the inside out, his terrified tears pool wet along the bridge of his nose as the death looms over him in a dark wave – 

– “Pick a man. Bring your kit.”

Schofield jerks awake with a full-body convulsion, a ragged half-scream ripping from his throat. He tips forward on all fours and retches into the long grass, eyes screwed shut against the glare of the afternoon sun.

“Sco! Sco?” 

Blake’s voice – Blake! – his soft cry of alarm so unlike the terror-filled call of Schofield’s name just moments ago. 

Schofield dry heaves, head between his knees. His shoulders begin to shake. 

He feels Blake’s hand on the back of his neck, warm and reassuring, and Schofield tries not to weep – in residual terror, in exhaustion, in overwhelming, exquisite relief. 

“Are you ok, Sco?” Blake is pressed close to him, all gentle concern.

Schofield drags his head up to lock eyes with Blake. “I – Yes.” He’s somehow back at the beginning, and alive. And Blake is alive. Blake is still alive! 

Behind them, a disgruntled mutter rises from one of the sleeping men. “Will you SHUT UP with all that noise –”

Blake rounds on the man in an instant. “No, _you _shut up. You weren’t in the Somme, were you, you bloody arse?” He turns back to Schofield, a worried crease in his forehead. “Were you dreaming of the Somme?”__

__Schofield stares at Blake for a moment, unblinking. “…Yes.”_ _

__Down the dirt track behind them, the sharp call of the Sergeant. “Don’t dawdle!”_ _

__Blade looks carefully at Schofield. “Are you alright mate? Sarge said to pick a man and I was going to pick you, but you don’t look well –”_ _

__“-I’m fine.” Schofield cuts Blake off and seizes up his pack and rifle, snatching at Blake’s wrist and pulling him in a fast trot down the dirt track._ _

__After a few steps, Schofield feels Blake tug almost tentatively against his hold. Schofield barely registers it. He redoubles his grip._ _

__Schofield shakes his head savagely. He has to get his thoughts in order – what went wrong and when. It is all happening, again. And what if this is the third and final chance? Where had he failed last time? What had he failed to spot? What factors had he failed to control? How could he prevent failing again?_ _

__Schofield’s head spins. He can’t think. He can’t make himself think. But he has to think – he has to – he can’t fail Blake._ _

__In Schofield’s ears, his heartbeat is unnaturally loud, broken by his breath coming in fast, shallow gasps. His vision starts to narrow, until Schofield is at the end of a long paper tube, like he the ones he used to make out of newspaper and let his eldest daughter pretend was a telescope to the sky –_ _

__A half-sob catches in his throat. He shoves the memory away._ _

__Schofield’s fingers clench tighter around the edge of Blake’s wool sleeve. He is peripherally aware of Blake’s wrist pulling away, more insistently now in the darkness of the dugout and in the too-loud buzz of overlapping voices. He doesn’t let go. General Erinmore’s confused frown is a brief flash in the darkness._ _

__Daylight again – too bright, pulsing, Schofield gags on rising bile._ _

__And then the soft wool shifts in his grasp, replaced by a sudden warmth. A human hand, holding on tightly, palm to palm. Blake’s hand. It grounds him. Schofield’s thundering heartbeat begins to slow._ _

__“ – Sco.” Blake’s voice, blunt, urgent._ _

__The world comes slowly back into focus, like congealing treacle. Schofield blinks. They are next to the ladder to no-man’s land._ _

__Blake’s grip on Schofield’s hand is painfully tight, his face set like stone. Schofield nearly flinches back. Blake’s never looked at him like that before._ _

__“Listen, all right?” Blake’s voice is harsh. “Listen to me. I’m going to save my brother. And it’s a two-man job so you’re coming with me. I picked you earlier cause I can always rely on you. And I can rely on you, can’t I? Sco?”_ _

__Sco sucks in a sharp breath. “Yes – of course you can.” A beat. “I’m sorry about just now – I’m sorry.” Misery wells up inside him._ _

__The hardness in Blake’s eyes softens enough for some of his fear to show. He looks away. “Yeah. I know you couldn’t help it. Thinking of the Somme and all. I’ve seen some of the others like that. But I got to save my brother, and I can’t go alone, so you’ve got to come with me.” _You’ve got to be here for me. _The sentiment goes unsaid.____

____

____The implied accusation cuts deep. Schofield nearly flinches back. But he was here for Blake! He was, and he would be! He had gone through so damn much for him – Schofield’s eyes grow hot as the sheer weight of the truth pushes like a caged animal against the back of his teeth, trembling against his lips._ _ _ _

__

____He wants to tell Blake everything. But the truth is stranger than fiction – will Blake believe him? Or worse – sharp fear flashes through Schofield – what if Blake ends up thinking he’s finally lost it and picks another man to go with him? That is a possibility that cannot be borne. No, he must keep silent. Keep silent, remember the path. Control every factor, including Blake – everything in order to save him._ _ _ _

__

____Blake is still holding Schofield’s hand. It now seems to be more for his nerves than Schofield’s. Having said his piece, Blake looks suddenly ashamed. He averts his eyes, unwilling to look up at his friend._ _ _ _

__

____Schofield steels himself, and when he speaks it is in a tone of authority he has never used with anyone of the same rank, much less Blake. “Look, there’s no avoiding it. I’m more experienced than you. I’ve been at the Somme, at Thiepval. You haven’t.”_ _ _ _

__

____At the even control in Schofield’s voice – no anger – Blake seems to calm. He steals a look at Schofield, a begrudging twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah I get it, you’ve got your ribbon, I haven’t, way to rub it in mate –”_ _ _ _

__

____“– what I mean is that you’ve got to listen to me.” For emphasis, Schofield tightens his grip, wrapping his fingers around the back of Blake’s hand. Blake finally meets Schofield’s eyes, and baulks a little at what he sees there. Schofield carries on, determined, unsmiling. “You’ve got to follow instructions, even if you don’t understand why. I know things. Cause I’ve – I’ve done things before and you haven’t. So you’ve got to do what I say. Understand?”_ _ _ _

__

____Blake frowns, looking a little resistant. “But Sco, it’s a two-man job. I’m not taking a back seat here, not when it’s my brother at stake –”_ _ _ _

__

____The twin howl of two passing planes roars overhead._ _ _ _

__

____Schofield snaps his head in the direction of the sound. He curses aloud. “We’re running late. We’ve got to go now. Come!” Schofield is up and over the parapet in a moment, dragging Blake after him into the wasteland like a sack of potatoes._ _ _ _

__

____Blake’s protests fall on deaf ears as Schofield all but manhandles him through the British wire and hauls him straight across no man’s land, almost as the crow flies._ _ _ _

__

____Schofield withdraws into an intensely focused quiet, only belied by the almost unnatural sharpness of his gaze. Blake’s questions at their forced pace meet a stony wall of silence._ _ _ _

__

____They drop into the German trench. Schofield carefully helps Blake down, but when Blake opens his mouth to speak, Schofield simply snaps out a quiet “This way,” and pulls him down the trench._ _ _ _

__

____By the time they reach the underground barracks, Blake has lapsed into a mutinous silence, jaw clenched. In the darkness, the air between them lies thick and heavy with tension. Schofield is all too aware of this in the back of his mind, but he is preoccupied with far more pressing matters at hand – they are approaching the storage room._ _ _ _

__

____Ten paces from the doorway to the room, Schofield snaps around to Blake, speaking for the second time since they had left their home trenches._ _ _ _

__

____“Stay.” It is unmistakeably an order._ _ _ _

__

____Blake visibly struggles to contain his frustration. He takes a deep breath, and says placatingly, “Look, Sco –”_ _ _ _

__

____“Stay. Here.” Schofield grinds out._ _ _ _

__

____Blake stares at him for a moment. A hot flush of anger rises up from his collar. “Fine then!” he hisses. “Have it your way!”_ _ _ _

__

____Schofield’s heart twists, but he shoves the emotion down and locks it up tight._ _ _ _

__

____With light, quick steps, Schofield treads into the storage room and fixes his bayonet. The gleam of their torchlight flickers along the blade as he saws roughly at each of the hanging bags, starting with those hanging closest to the tripwire, almost invisible in the gloom, and working his way towards the ones by the doorway to the bunk room. He places them gingerly on the outside edge of the doorway, and each time he does so a few fat, black rats drop on the ground and scurry out towards the growing pile of wrapped food._ _ _ _

__

____There. It is done. Schofield lets out a shaky breath._ _ _ _

__

____“Your permission to move from this spot, sir?” Blake works his jaw. His question is bitingly sarcastic._ _ _ _

__

____For a moment, Schofield just looks at Blake._ _ _ _

__

____Something of the deep, tearing sadness within him must have shown on his face. Blake takes a half-step forward, reaching out. Schofield longs to go to him, to comfort and be comforted. But Schofield is terrifyingly aware of the tripwire, still live and untriggered, behind him. They are not through yet. “There’s a tripwire here. Look sharp,” he says quietly, breaking the moment._ _ _ _

__

____Blake lowers his half-outstretched hand. Looks away. “Right,” he mutters. He moves past Schofield to look at the wire, and braces himself against Schofield’s arm as he carefully moves over and away from it. Heart thrumming, Schofield follows, leaning against Blake’s arm in return as he cautiously steps over. Blake lets go of him as soon as he clears the wire. Schofield notices, but doesn’t comment._ _ _ _

__

____They take the tunnels at a double march. In front of Schofield, Blake’s shoulders are drawn tight and angry._ _ _ _

__

____There’s a fork in the tunnel. Blake stops abruptly, Schofield nearly running into his back. Blake cranes his head left and right. “Which way – ”_ _ _ _

__

____Schofield taps him on the right shoulder, pointing. The murky square of daylight faintly outlines the edge of Blake’s nose._ _ _ _

__

____“Right then,” Blake says shortly, moving ahead. Schofield pauses for a beat. The gap between them grows. For a moment, in the darkness, Schofield watches Blake’s silhouette climbing towards the brightening window of light. Then he follows._ _ _ _

__

____They emerge from the mouth of the tunnel to an overcast grey sky. Blake takes out his compass. “Southeast is – that way.” He starts up the hill without waiting for an answer.  
Schofield goes after him, almost exactly in Blake’s footsteps, thinking hard. The quarry next. Then the orchard, and the farmhouse. He’s got to get Blake past that before the plane crashes. _ _ _ _

__

____Almost at that thought, the rumble of the planes sounds out again overhead. Schofield shivers. Maybe they could skirt around the farm altogether?_ _ _ _

__

____Then, floating to memory – a tiny, warm hand wrapped around his finger. _They went to sea in a Sieve, they did. _____ _ _

__

______Schofield closes his eyes. Milk, for the baby. He fights with himself for a useless moment. Blake. Priorities. _In a Sieve they went to sea… _Schofield exhales and swears under this breath. There’s no avoiding the farm.___ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Ahead, Blake makes a noise of disbelief at the sight of the desolate quarry before them. Schofield draws abreast. Takes in afresh the sight of the black, twisted remains of the German artillery._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________“They destroyed their own guns,” Blake says wonderingly. He looks at Schofield._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________But Schofield has already moved past him. “We should hurry. And fire that flare,” he says shortly. Schofield scans the horizon – if he remembers correctly, the orchard should be just over that copse of dead trees._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________A mutter from behind him, almost muffled by the sharp pop of the flare gun firing. “Up yours.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield doesn’t think Blake means the lieutenant this time. His stomach twists._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield sets a fast walking pace towards the trees, and Blake draws alongside eventually. The silence grates between them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Biting his lip, Schofield carries on. He would rather have Blake angry with him than Blake dead, he tells himself. But a quiet Blake is jarring all the same. Schofield’s chest aches, heart-deep._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________They reach the stone walls of the orchard and pass through it soundlessly, the carpet of snowy petals soft under their boots. Beside Schofield, Blake reaches down and gently picks up a cherry blossom. Blake opens his mouth as if to speak, but then his face closes and he simply tucks it into his jacket. He brushes past Schofield and walks on, stone-faced._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________As they begin to tread down the valley to the farmhouse, Schofield can take it no longer. “Blake.” The word is almost a plea._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Blake stops. Looks at Schofield darkly, expectantly. A light breeze rustles the grass between them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield can hardly bring himself look his friend in the eye. “I’m sorry.” A lot is wrapped up in those words. It comes out almost as a sob. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m just trying –” He breaks off. There’s just so much. The self-loathing and failure and sheer exhaustion well up inside him. He needs to get them past the farm, and quickly. But Schofield can’t get his feet to move. He looks at the ground, eyes prickling with tears._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________A pair of booted feet come into view, and suddenly there is a pair of arms around his shoulders, holding him close. Schofield screws his eyes shut and allows himself to be held._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________“Hey, hey. Sco, it’s ok, it’s alright. Talk to me.” Blake’s voice is unexpectedly gentle, concerned. Forgiving._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield cannot bear it. He buries his face into Blake’s shoulder and cries silent, hitching sobs. “We’ve – we’ve got – to keep going –” he chokes out, hardly able to breathe between sobs. Although Blake is shorter than him, Schofield is crumpled in on himself, smaller in Blake’s arms. He digs his fingers into Blake’s jacket and forces himself to try to pull away, down towards the farmhouse._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________At Schofield’s words – still so mission-focused – Blake stiffens for a moment. But then he softens again and tugs Schofield closer. “Nah,” he quips, light and nonchalant and so like himself. “You might be more experienced at soldiering and all, but I do know better sometimes. I think we need to stop for a bit.” He rests a hand on the back of Schofield’s head, tucking him in close._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Torn between desperate relief and fearful anxiety, Schofield clings on to Blake tightly. He allows himself to be comforted for a long, long moment._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Then, with great effort, he raises his head and draws back slightly, meeting Blake’s eyes. “Blake – there’s something I haven’t told you.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been on this mission bef–”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________– the spluttering wail of a plane flying far too low drowns out the rest of Schofield’s words, droning louder and louder towards them –_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________CRASH._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________The barn ahead is alight in flames, the wreckage of the broken plane eerie in the orange light. Muffled screaming drifts from the cockpit towards them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield panics. The milk – the baby._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Blake takes one look at the plane and rips himself away. In an instant, he’s halfway down the hill._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________A wave of ice-cold fear washes over Schofield. “STOP – Blake! Come back, it’s not safe!” Schofield scrambles after Blake, half-blinded from the tears still drying on his face, and trips over his own feet. Tumbles face-first into the grass. Gets up again, runs. “BLAKE! BLAKE!” His voice is raw in his throat. He tastes copper._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Ahead of him, Blake has reached the skeletal wreck and is tugging at the pilot’s jacket, groaning at the heat of the flames. The pilot is screaming, flailing against the fuselage, the controls, against Blake. With a roar of effort, Blake pulls the man half-free from the cockpit._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield reaches the edge of the farmhouse just as the pilot kicks against the fuel switch with an audible click._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Blake looks up, face soot-streaked. He meets Schofield’s eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________The plane explodes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________A burning blast of hot air smashes Schofield into the wall of the farmhouse. Dazed, in pain, he struggles to his hands and knees. “Blake,” he croaks. His vision wavers, blurs._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

_______Schofield crawls forward like a child, scorched fingers tracking through the brown earth before him, searching._ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________His fingers curl into a wool jacket, a leather jerkin._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Blake._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Blake’s eyes are open, unseeing. Twin trails of blood run from his ears._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield reaches out shaking hands to grasp the collar of Blake’s jacket. “Blake?” No answer. “Blake?” he pleads. No answer. The crackle of the burning wreck is loud in the sudden silence. The air is still._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield curls up over his friend’s body, and howls._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Not again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Not again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________“Take me instead!” he screams into Blake’s chest. “Take me!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________No answer._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________An indeterminable amount of time passes. Schofield eventually sits back on his heels. Blake has already gone pale. Schofield stares at him, empty._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________The dead German pilot is a half-charred corpse a few yards away, thrown clear by the blast. The smoke-blackened grip of the pilot’s Mauser pistol hangs out of the tattered uniform._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield looks from the pilot, to Blake, and back again. He gets to his feet. Staggers. Lurches over to the pilot. Pulls the still-warm pistol into his hand. Checks the clip. Stumbles back to Blake._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield rests his hand on Blake’s head, a gentle touch. Blood seeps sluggishly from between his fingers. “Next time, I promise. Next time.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________From the corner of the farmhouse, a voice rings out. “You alright, mate?” Two men, Privates. Schofield looks at them blankly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Captain Smith comes up just behind them, eyes softening at the sight of Schofield kneeling next to Blake. Then his gaze lands on the pistol, grasped loosely in Schofield’s right hand, and a hint of alarm shows on his face. “Son – listen to me –” he starts forward, reaching out –_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

________Schofield raises the pistol to his own head and pulls the trigger._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me. I told you guys that it would get worse before it gets better. And it will get better, I promise. 
> 
> Apologies, I think instead of posting twice a week, chapters are going to be longer but once a week.
> 
> Comments would be most welcome - always up for a chat!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schofield tries a different approach.
> 
> TW for suicide (continuing from the previous chapter).

“NO!” Captain Smith’s cry echoes in the ring of the gunshot. 

Schofield feels the force of the bullet like a thunderclap slamming into his head just above his right temple. Unfamiliar with the pistol and the awkward angle against his own head, he had tilted the barrel upward when pulling the trigger. 

Schofield makes no sound. His vision crumbles in on itself like burnt paper as the ground rushes up to meet him. The world bleeds into a confusing mess of shapes and figures, all its colours leaching out like dye running into a dark, rushing river. 

There’s a pale blur in his field of vision. In the dim fog of Schofield’s fading consciousness, a face.

Blake. 

Right there next to him, blank eyes open to the cloudy sky.

Schofield’s fingers strain forward weakly, uselessly, flickering in the dirt. He whimpers with the effort. Blood runs into his eyes, pooling under his head.

Then the touch of a strong, gentle hand in the faint outline of a sleeve with a captain’s braid, lifting Schofield’s hand and placing it against the rough warmth of Blake’s wool jacket. Schofield’s fingers lie there trembling, feather light. He relaxes. 

Schofield smiles. 

The rushing water takes him – 

“ – Pick a man. Bring your kit.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Schofield opens his eyes. 

Blake’s right there, blinking blearily in the sunlight, rubbing his face. Schofield just looks at him. Had Blake always been this young? 

Blake picks himself up and dusts off. Walks over, looks down at Schofield. Smiles good naturedly, offers his hand.

Schofield is still staring. 

“Sco?” Blake’s eyes flick from his outstretched hand to Schofield’s unblinking gaze. A crease forms in his brow. “You ok?”

Schofield wants to weep, to scream, to cry. He does none of those things. Instead, he presses his lips into a thin line, takes Blake’s hand, and lets Blake pull him upright. His whole body aches, down to his bones, his bruised soul. He holds on to Blake’s hand for the briefest moment before letting go, quite deliberately.

“Not really,” Schofield says quietly, matter-of-fact.

Blake stops in the middle of scooping up Schofield’s rifle for him, and catches Schofield by the elbow. “Why? What’s wrong?” Blake is all open earnestness. 

Schofield’s eyes grow suddenly hot. He has to look away. “We should go.” He scoops up his pack and just starts walking.

“Sco?” Blake calls out behind him. Schofield doesn’t answer. There’s a trembling in his chest. Schofield thinks if he replies, he might shatter like a pane of glass.

Schofield moves almost mechanically, long strides eating up the distance to the Sergeant. Blake half-jogs to keep up, and when he draws even with Schofield, reaches up to flick him gamely on the arm. “Tell me what’s wrong, mate.” Blake looks searchingly up at Schofield. “You look a bit pale. Are you ill?”

Schofield shakes his head resolutely, eyes fixed on the horizon. He feels almost as if he is floating, ghostlike, down the trench. There is a yawning emptiness inside of him that he can’t quite identify, a great, gaping hole where his heart used to be. Maybe it is a grief so deep it is indistinguishable from weariness. Even as he walks, Schofield closes his eyes for a moment. He doesn’t want to open them again.

“Sco? – Hey. Look at me.” Blake’s voice, insistent. Schofield blinks down at him. 

Blake is looking up at him again, a worried tilt to his head. “Bad news from home?” he asks softly.

The mention of home punches the breath out of Schofield’s lungs and grinds him to a halt. His next breath is a sawing roughness that robs him of speech. Against his undershirt, his blue tin lies ice-cold and accusing over his heart. He thinks of the pictures inside for the first time in what feels like days. Memory rises like mist – the warm glow of a crackling fireplace, a child’s laughter – 

Blake looks suddenly alarmed. He closes the gap between them, grasps Schofield’s arm, presses close. 

Confused but grateful, Schofield looks down at Blake. Why?

Schofield feels something like a raindrop run down the curve of his face. He looks up at the grey-clouded sky, frowning. There shouldn’t be rain, as far as he can remember. Schofield swipes at his face with the back of his hand – 

– his cheeks are wet. 

Bewildered, Schofield lets the tears run down his face. The emptiness inside him hasn’t changed. He doesn’t feel anything, but the tears keep coming, dripping off his nose, his chin. It scares him a little. 

“What is it – what’s happened?” Blake presses for an answer in a low, urgent undertone, out of earshot of the Sergeant a few paces ahead of them. His knuckles are white on Schofield’s sleeve, fearful. “It can’t be – are the children all right?”

Schofield barely hears him. He had almost forgotten home. For the longest time, he hadn’t wanted to think about his family at all, for fear of never seeing them again. But in the wild, empty stillness left behind by the echo of the exploding German plane and Blake’s blank, unseeing eyes, he had fired a pistol into his own head without a second thought. 

He had pulled the trigger, just like that. What if he hadn’t woken up again? 

A sickening tide of guilt rises, churning in Schofield’s gut. It shatters the empty nothingness inside of him, lightning grounding itself, and with it returns Schofield’s sense of reality. He has to save Blake. And he has to stay alive himself. A tremor starts in his limbs.

Blake feels it. He opens his mouth as if to push further – he never was one to keep quiet when a friend is in pain – but before he can, Schofield speaks first.

“It’s alright, Blake.” Schofield says quietly. He manages to keep the trembling out of his voice. Blake looks dubiously up at him, disbelieving. 

Schofield gives him a tight little smile. “And if it’s not alright now, it will be.” Schofield wills himself to believe it. He wills it with every part of his being, his whole soul. Maybe if he thinks it hard enough, it will come true.

There’s a distinct edge of disquiet in Blake’s expression, but he says nothing more. Instead, he brings his other hand up to rest on Schofield’s shoulder. The warm weight of Blake’s palm doesn’t leave Schofield until they duck into the dugout, and Blake snaps to attention in the presence of General Erinmore. 

Schofield feels the absence of Blake’s grounding touch keenly, and sways a little in the lamplight. He knows the briefing word-for-word by now. 

Schofield uses the time to think, forcing the weary fog in his head to clear by sheer mental effort. What happened last time that made everything go wrong? How had he failed? The fresh memory of Blake’s cold, dead eyes leaps unbidden into his thoughts. Schofield suppresses a full-body shudder. He looks quickly at Blake, to wash the image from his mind. 

In the flickering candlelight of the dugout, Blake’s frame is coiled with tension. General Erinmore has just mentioned his brother. Blake’s face moves from fear, to conviction, to bull-headed determination.

A chill goes through Schofield. He suddenly understands. Each time he’s done this, he has tried to control every factor, even Blake. Especially Blake. But Blake has always been himself. Headstrong, stubborn, strong-willed. Schofield might as well have tried to restrain a wave on the sea.

Despite himself, a corner of Schofield’s mouth lifts, wry. A dark, grim certainty settles in the pit of his stomach.

He knows what he has to do.

Out of the dugout again and into the light, down the forward trenches right behind Blake’s footsteps, looking at the desperate tension in Blake’s back and shoulders – 

– face to face by the ladder to no-man’s land. Lieutenant Leslie splashes them with his hip flask.

Blake is pale, tense. “Sco –” 

Schofield cuts him off sharply. “There’s something I have to tell you.” 

Taken aback by Schofield’s tone, Blake softens. He reaches out and grasps Schofield’s arm. “I haven’t forgotten about earlier. Look, Sco, I’m sorry, but we’ve got to go now. It’s my big brother –”

“No, Blake,” Schofield says, “I –”

Blake is immediately mutinous. “I’m going, right now – you don’t understand, it’s not your big brother –”

Schofield loses his patience. “Blake!” He grabs Blake by the shoulders and shakes him, hard. 

Shocked, Blake looks at him, wide-eyed. Schofield barrels onwards before Blake can speak. “Yes, we’ll go right now! But I have to tell you something. It’s important, and I need you to trust me – I need you to believe me. Can you – can you trust me?” 

The fire in Schofield’s voice peters out at the end, goes quiet. Schofield looks at the ground for a moment, head down between his outstretched arms, still holding onto Blake’s shoulders. He feels Blake nod.

Schofield takes a deep breath. Looks up to meet Blake’s eyes. 

“I’ve been on this mission before.” There, he said it.

Blake looks confused, a little uneasy. “Er. What do you mean?”

“I’ve done this before, we’ve done this before. We went on the mission together, I completed it, saved your brother. Then I fell asleep against a tree and woke up next to you back there.”

Blake stares at him. 

Schofield ploughs on, quickly, the words spilling out almost over each other. “I know what’s up there –” he points to no-man’s land “ – all the way to Écoust, Croisilles Wood, the Devons. Don’t ask me how it’s possible, I don’t know why, or how. But I know we’ve got to get moving, and I need you to trust me because I know what’s coming.”

Blake still hasn’t said anything. Schofield watches him, hopeful, almost afraid.

Blake takes in a long, slow breath. Then he takes a careful step back and away from Schofield. Schofield’s hands slip off Blake’s shoulders. They look at each other.

“This is unlike you, Sco.” Blake’s voice is soft, disappointed. There’s a bitterness to the set of his mouth. “If this is a joke, it isn’t funny. And I’ve never known you to be cruel.”

Schofield’s heart sinks. “No – I’m telling the truth – Blake, you’ve got to believe me!” He takes a half-step forward. Blake steps back again, keeping his distance. Schofield feels the pain of the rejection almost as a physical wound. 

Blake shakes his head. “Stop it. It’s not funny,” he repeats. His tone hardens. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s go – keep your head down.” He turns to the ladder leading up to the parapet.

“For goodness’ sake – there’s no need to keep our heads down because I’ve done this before and there’s no Hun out there – look, I’ll prove it to you.” Schofield scrambles up and over and stands at his full height on the parapet, turning back to face the trench. “See?” He spreads his arms wide, making himself as big a target as possible.

Below him, Blake blanches white with fear. “Get down from there – get down –” Blake reaches up and scrabbles uselessly at Schofield’s boot tips, frantic. “Sco – you reckless bastard – get down!”

Schofield is all at once aware that the whole frontline trench has gone silent. Four dozen faces streaked with dirt and mud stare up at him. Lieutenant Leslie has stopped ten yards away, mouth agape, his cigarette burning up into his fingers. 

A mutter floats up from a behind pile of sandbags to Schofield’s right. “Poor bastard’s gone mad.”

Schofield shakes his head, impatient. “Blake, I’m not getting shot at because there are no Germans in that trench behind me. I’ve been on this mission before. Please believe me.” The last part comes out almost as a plea.

Blake stops pulling at Schofield shoes, and looks up at him keenly for a moment. Schofield waits, heart in his mouth. 

A long, long moment of silence.

Then Blake suddenly staggers backwards, until his back almost hits the wall of the opposite side of the trench. “Oh God,” he says in a very small voice. “You’ve actually lost it.” He breaks eye contact with Schofield, looks away. Blake’s eyes fill with disbelieving, horrified tears. 

Schofield goes cold. No. No no no this is not happening – 

Blake can’t seem to bear to look at Schofield. His chest rises and falls rapidly, panicked. “How can I – without you –” Blake cuts himself off, gulps back a sob. Stumbles to Lieutenant Leslie. “I’ve got to – is there – can you spare one of your men – ”

Lieutenant Leslie hasn’t stopped watching Schofield, his gaze hawklike. He waves Blake away without looking at him, cigarette ash dropping from between his languid fingers. “No luck. Not sending one of mine on this effing death march. You want someone else, you go back to General Erinmore.” He unscrews his hip flask and tips the rest of its contents on Blake’s boots. “If you’re going with this one, you’ll need more than a splash. Blessings, boy.” He clinks the flask against Blake’s rifle in an empty toast.

Blake stands alone in the middle of the trench, shaking, eyes wild. He looks back up the trench towards General Erinmore’s dugout.

“Blake – please –” Schofield’s legs fold under him as he sits on his heels, then falls forward on his knees on the earthen bank. He reaches down towards Blake, almost begging. “Blake, look at me – LOOK AT ME!” 

The other men nearby reach for their rifles by reflex. Leslie goes very still, and his hand goes into his jacket. Blake slowly turns in place and looks up. Blake’s eyes are red-rimmed.

Schofield forces himself to calm. If he lets this continue, he’s going to get shot by their own side. When he speaks, his voice is controlled, even. “Blake. I’ve not gone insane, I swear. I swear to you on my daughters’ lives,” – a sharp intake of breath from Blake at this – “I’m not making this up. You can’t go with someone else, you’ve got to come with me. That’s the only way you’ll survive, and I’ve got to save you. I’ve got to protect you, Blake. Now take my hand and let’s go! Please!” 

Blake stares at Schofield’s hand, outstretched in the space between them. He doesn’t move to take it.

Then – the twin roar of planes passing overhead.

Schofield sits up, spits out a curse. For a moment, he covers his face with his shaking hands. Then he stands, turns towards no man’s land. “I’m going, Blake.” Schofield turns his head over his shoulder, across the strap of his pack. “You choose whether to follow.” 

Schofield slips down the bank into no-man’s land and just starts walking. 

For a terrible moment, Schofield hears nothing behind him, and a cold despair wells up inside him. Then he hears the sound of muffled swearing. Schofield turns to see Blake fling his rifle over the top and heave himself up onto the bank. 

A mutter drifts up distinctly from men in the trench. “Poor sod.”

Schofield doesn’t hide his relief. When Blake approaches, Schofield makes to clasp him on the shoulder, but Blake flinches back. There is a careful wariness to him. Schofield drops his hand, stung.

They regard each other for a moment. Blake clears his throat, looks askance. “Let’s go then.” 

It is exquisitely painful. Schofield forces himself to carry on. For Blake. Always for Blake. “This way,” he says quietly. 

They cross no-man’s land at almost a straight run, Schofield setting a breakneck pace. Blake struggles to keep up. “Wait – Sco –!”

Schofield doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. Like a wolf on the hunt, his feet find the fastest, surest path, and Blake looks at him almost wonderingly.

They reach the German line, and Schofield drops catlike into the trench, pulling Blake down after him. “Listen.” Schofield says shortly. They stop.

Blake looks sideways at him, his thinking obvious from his posture. What now?

Schofield speaks quickly. “There’s going to be a dead end at the end of the comms trench. But we’ll go down the line trench and the way forward is through the underground barracks.” 

“Right…” Blake draws the syllable out slowly.

Schofield continues doggedly. “There’s a tripwire in the storeroom at the back of the barracks. If we aren’t careful, the rats will set it off. When I tell you to stay back, stay back.”

Blake nods slowly, clearly uncomfortable. “Alright mate,” he says noncommittally. 

Schofield lets out a long, tired breath. His shoulders slump. “Alright then,” he mutters. “Let’s go.” Schofield walks down the trench, back straight, not bothering to sling down his rifle. There are no Germans here. Next to him, Blake, crouched low, swings his rifle around the corner of the comms trench. 

Dead end.

Blake pauses. Steals a glance at Schofield, obviously unsettled. Schofield bites his lip and makes no comment. 

Schofield finds the doorway of the barracks and slips into the familiar darkness, flicking on his torch almost as an afterthought. Blake’s feet creak down the wooden steps behind him. 

Their torchlight throws up looming shadows on the iron bedframes and earthen walls. Blake draws nearer to Schofield, shoulder to shoulder. Schofield swallows past a lump in his throat, absurdly grateful to feel Blake close to him.

The doorway to the storeroom is just ahead, a dark mouth open in the blackness.

Schofield throws an arm across Blake’s chest, stopping him. “Stay here. There’s a tripwire in that room.”

Blake raises his light and squints into the shadows, frowning. “Are you sure? Doesn’t look like it to me.” He steps sideways and away from Schofield’s touch.

“Please, just trust me,” Schofield says, voice tight. “I’ve done this before.” As the words leave his mouth, he feels Blake stiffen beside him.

Blake rounds on him, face taut with tension. “Look, Sco, can you please stop? You’re scaring me. I don’t know what’s going on in your head or back home, but just stop saying you’ve done this before. You haven’t. I need you to wake up. I need to rely on you.” The torch in Blake’s hand is shaking. 

Schofield stares at him, helpless. There’s nothing he can do. He shakes his head. “Just – wait here.” 

Schofield leaves Blake standing small and forlorn in the little pool of torchlight, and ducks into the storeroom. He fixes his bayonet and saws at the hanging bags of food with increasing savagery. Finish this quickly, then get Blake past the pilot. Priorities. Priorities. He ignores the heat building behind his nose, his eyes. He feels forsaken, alone. 

The torchlight skitters over the gleam of another bayonet. Schofield nearly jumps out of his skin. 

“Whoa! It’s only me,” Blake says, _in the storeroom with him_. 

Schofield’s vision pulses red with horror. “Get out!” he hisses frantically. “You can’t be in here!”

“I’m just helping you out!” Blake says, taking one of the bags – next to the tripwire oh God! – and turning to put his bayonet to the rope.

Schofield’s hand closes on the back of Blake’s collar. “You don’t understand! The two of us is enough to disturb the rats –” His heart is thudding against his ribs. Get out get out get out – 

A rat, a sleek black thing, drops from the shelves onto Blake’s shoulder, squeaking. 

Blake yelps – flails – dislodges the rat – 

– Schofield swears out loud and tries to pull Blake towards the doorway to the bunk room – 

KABOOM.

The force of the explosion slams into Schofield like a freight train, throwing him back and cracking his head against the ground. A massive blast of dust and dirt thunders down, choking off his torchlight, thundering in his ears.

Schofield groans, gags on the dust. Swipes his hand past his eyes. “Blake?” 

There’s a mountain of rubble before him in the weak torchlight, chalk-white, still. Blake is nowhere to be seen.

No. NO. “BLAKE? BLAKE!” Schofield’s scream rips from his throat.

For a moment, there is nothing.

Then from under the rubble, a muffled cry.

Blake is screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the cliffhanger, it was 3.5k words and there wasn't anywhere else to cut it...please don't kill me. Also I don't know how I managed to get this chapter out lol I've been working until 10:30pm this week at the office - I guess I couldn't keep away from Blake and Sco!
> 
> Also if any of you would like to chat I have a tumblr - handle is @wafflesrisa. Inbox is open!
> 
> Comments would be most welcome - always up for a chat!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schofield struggles.

Schofield can hear Blake screaming. Raw, terrified, high-pitched screams, from somewhere under the massive mound of chalk-white debris. 

In the dim blackness of the collapsed storeroom, the musty yellow of Schofield’s lone, flickering torch throws up jagged, toothlike shadows in the dust-filled air. A pounding, dreadful panic seizes up in Schofield’s chest and sends him into a spasm of coughing. 

Schofield scrabbles forward on his hands and knees towards the rubble, half blinded by dust and dirt. “BLAKE!” He screams back. “BLAKE!” He heaves himself onto the pile of chalk and rips into the earth and dust and broken wood with his bare hands, flinging pieces of rock away with bloody fingertips – 

Blake is still screaming, faint and stifled under the rubble. He sounds so young. He calls out for help, for his mother, in sobbing, panicked cries. He cries out for his brother.

And then he cries out for Sco.

Just Sco. Over and over and over again – 

Schofield, up to his elbows in the wreckage, screams down into the broken rock. “I’M COMING! I’M COMING BLAKE –” He breaks off, gagging. He shakes with the sheer horror of it all, as dust coats his eyes and tongue and mouth and the shadows leap for his throat. The world seems to invert, and Schofield thinks he is digging upwards, that he is the one buried under a solid ton of chalk, unable to breathe – 

Under Schofield’s hands, the muffled screaming stops. 

Schofield jerks back into lucid reality, the pounding of his heart and the taste of bile in his mouth. For a moment, the silence crushes down on Schofield. Then his scrabbling fingers find the edge of a leather jerkin, rough with dirt. With a howl of effort, he pulls Blake’s torso clear.

Blake is ghostlike, coated with white dust, eyes closed, unresponsive. Schofield suppresses the sob building in his chest, and shakes Blake hard, once, twice. No response. Schofield’s fingers are knuckled into the front of Blake’s wool jacket. 

“WAKE UP!” Schofield screams into Blake’s ear, clutching Blake to him. A maddening drumbeat sounds in his ears. No no NO NO – 

In the pool of yellow torchlight, Blake is still. 

“WAKE UP YOU BASTARD!” 

With a choked shriek, Blake comes alive in Schofield’s grasp. He flails and kicks in Schofield’s hold, heaving the meagre remains of Schofield’s ham and bread onto the front of Schofield’s jacket. 

Schofield doesn’t care. He holds Blake to him and weeps with sweet relief. 

Above them, the ragged remainder of the ceiling timber supports groan and creak. An ominous fissure splits the rock right above their heads with a resounding CRACK. 

Blake shudders at the sound, fingers wound tight into Schofield’s sleeves. “Sco!” He coughs hoarsely. “I can’t see! I can’t see!” A hard mask of chalk crusts his face, his eyelids a thin, unopenable crack. 

Schofield scrambles to his feet, heaving Blake up after him in the darkness. He presses himself to Blake’s side and yells into his ear. “You hold on to me!” He feels Blake nod against his cheek.

Schofield runs, dragging Blake with him. Dust and splinters of wood cascade over their helmets. With Schofield’s arm tight around him, Blake matches Schofield step for step, still gasping and choking. Terrified tears run down Blake’s round face in the gleam of their torchlight.

Schofield knows the tunnels by grim, terror-stricken memory. He bypasses a yawning chasm and throws them down a right-hand passage towards a tiny square of dim light, blinking in and out above them as the ground shakes beneath their feet –

Daylight washes over them, blessedly clear. Schofield throws Blake forward and curls over him in tight ball, shielding him with his own body. Behind them, the rockfall thunders down, sealing off the mouth of the tunnel. Ash billows out past Schofield, sending a hail of gravel stinging against his back.

Then stillness.

In Schofield’s hold, Blake is trembling, involuntary shivers running from the base of his spine to his scrunched up neck. Blake’s face is buried in Schofield’s shoulder as he heaves rough, panicked breaths. His helmet has slipped sideways. Schofield closes his eyes against Blake’s dust-filled hair and just breathes for a moment in the silence. He doesn’t loosen his hold.

A beat. Blake’s shaking gets worse, and he gulps for air against Schofield’s jacket. “Sco – I still – I still can’t see.”

Schofield shifts, making to reach for his pack. Blake clings tighter. 

“Shhh. It’s alright, you’re okay.” Schofield speaks in the quiet, hushed voice he sometimes uses for spooked deer in the woods back home. “It’s just dust, Blake, you’re alright.” He takes Blake’s hand and gently unclenches it from his sleeve, one finger at a time. 

Schofield reaches for his canteen, unscrews the cap and tips a careful stream down into Blake’s eyes. Schofield’s hand shakes. He forces it to steady.

Blake blinks rapidly in the sunlight. “Oh,” he breathes, half-stunned with relief. He brings the heel of one hand up to his eyes. “Thanks, Sco,” he says, still jittery. Blake smiles shakily up at Schofield, tear tracks still wet on his face. 

Schofield says nothing, looks away. He busies himself with putting his canteen back into his pack. He pauses. Half of his fingernails have been ripped off. Red runs sluggishly down the side of the canteen. Schofield can’t feel a thing. 

His hands won’t stop bloody shaking. Blake is alive. But he isn’t safe yet. And they’ve lost time in the cave-in and the tunnels. What next? There’s still the farmhouse. Milk in the barn, for the baby. Then get Blake away from the barn before the plane – yes. That’s it. Easy enough, if Blake would just listen to him… Schofield closes his eyes and tries to calm his raging heartbeat. Helpless relief and lingering fear settle into his gut like a heavy stone, mingling into another emotion that he can’t quite identify. It burns like cold fire. 

Blake gives Schofield a watery grin as he stands, wobbling. “I should have shot that damn rat.” He laughs, hiccups. Reaches down to hold out his hand to Schofield. 

Schofield sucks in a sharp breath, fights to keep his tone even. He looks at the ground. “No,” he says quite deliberately. “We’ve done that before. That kills one of us.” 

Blake freezes, tensing up again. “Oh. Um.” His outstretched hand wavers, then drops. “Er. Sco –” Blake pauses, awkwardly.

Blake won’t meet Schofield's gaze. Schofield studies Blake’s face for a moment, then lets out a bitter laugh. There’s a hint of hysteria in it, and Blake steps forward to reach for Schofield’s elbow, looking alarmed.

Schofield brushes off Blake’s hand. Blake bites his lip guiltily.

“You still don’t believe me.” Schofield says wonderingly. He tilts his head back to look at the cloudy sky. “After all that.” The cold fire twists in his chest, burns into his bones. He feels sick.

Blake’s brow furrows. His jaw tightens and he draws in his shoulders, defensive. “Look Sco, it’s just bloody hard to believe, all right? I do trust you, and I think you believe what you’re saying, it’s just –” Blake breaks off with a noise of frustration. “It’s just hard to believe, that’s all,” he says, quieter, looking at Schofield. “Please don’t be angry with me.” The last part sounds almost plaintive.

For a long moment, Schofield doesn’t answer. Blake shifts from side to side, fidgeting in the uncomfortable silence. Then Schofield breathes out slowly, and the cold fire smoulders down into glowing embers inside him. He reaches into his chest pocket. His blue tin warms under his fingers. “Alright,” he mutters quietly, almost to himself. “Alright.”

Schofield raises his head and stretches out his hand, letting Blake pull him to his feet. Relief washes openly over Blake’s face, then horror as he catches sight of the state of Schofield’s bloodied fingers. He catches Schofield’s hands in both of his own.

“Sco – your hands – !” Blake bites his lip. “You were digging to get me out?” A spasm of guilt crosses his face.

Schofield nods. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says shortly.

The roar of engines as two planes pass overhead.

Schofield looks up, eyes widening. His body snaps straight with sudden tension. “We’ve got to move,” he snaps out, sharp. “Give me the flare!”

Looking slightly bewildered, Blake digs into his webbing and pulls out the flare gun and cartridge. Schofield snatches them out of Blake’s grasp and struggles to load the gun, the cartridge slipping between fingers slippery with drying blood. He bites out a curse. The gun finally snaps shut with a metallic click. 

Schofield fires the flare and drops it before it even finishes smoking. He closes the distance between himself and Blake in two steps, snatches up Blake’s wrist and sets off at a dead run up the slope and into the abandoned quarry. 

Blake startles, dragged into a sprint after Schofield. “Why are we running – Sco? – Sco!” Their feet kick up clouds of white dust as they dart up towards the copse of dead trees. 

Schofield can hardly hear Blake through the thudding of his heart. Quickly, quickly – he can still hear the faint echo of the planes somewhere in the distance – frantic desperation drives his boots into the ground faster – 

Schofield feels Blake tugging back against his hand. Blake’s ragged panting is uneven against the crunch of their shoes against gravel. “Sco – slow down – I can’t keep up – Sco – SCO!” 

Schofield stops so suddenly he feels Blake run into his back. He whips around, fixes his burning gaze on Blake. 

Blake’s round face is red with exertion. “Sco – please,” he gasps, bent over and trying to catch his breath. “Why –”

Schofield grinds the words out past gritted teeth, staccato sharp. “There’s a pail of fresh milk in the barn in the farm ahead. There’s a baby girl in Écoust who will die without it. A plane is going to crash into that barn and destroy it if we don’t get there first. So, for the love of all that’s holy, Blake, just effing run with me.”

Blake blinks up at Schofield and at this rush of information, eyebrows creased in obvious confusion. But he lets Schofield grab his arm again and drag him forward, and they run together.

Down the hill and through the cherry orchard, silvery pink blossoms scattering under the thunder of their footsteps.

Schofield’s left shoulder catches painfully on the stone archway as he throws himself out of the orchard and down the muddy slope towards the farm – he trips forward –

Blake snatches Schofield up before his face hits the grass and they keep running, sawing breaths wrenched away by the wind – 

Into the farmhouse yard, the buzzing drone of the midair dogfight loud and growing ever nearer – 

Schofield skids to a stop on one knee next to the pail of milk and fumbles for his empty canteen, come on come on Come ON COME ON – Blake’s mouth open in plain astonishment, eyes round at the sight of the pail and the dogfight – 

The long, low sputtering drone of a dying plane engine, an unstoppable wave of sound rushing up towards them and vibrating in their bones –

Done! Schofield wrenches the cap of his canteen shut, and in one smooth motion grabs the front of Blake’s jerkin and rolls them both away from the barn. 

CRASH.

A blast of hot air scorches past them, scalding the back of Schofield’s neck. Blake is under Schofield’s arm, pressed into the dirt, and Schofield hears him cry out at the searing heat. Schofield draws Blake in tighter. 

The barn erupts in crackling flame. The shriek of twisting metal mingles with the anguished cries of the German pilot rising from the wreckage.

Schofield struggles to his knees and fists his hands in Blake’s jacket, intending to tug him towards the farmhouse and away from the blaze. 

Blake’s eyes are wide, horrified. “Sco – the pilot’s still alive – ”

Schofield feels Blake pull away from under his grip, towards the downed plane. 

“NO!” Schofield screams, whiplashing about and full-body tackling Blake to the ground. “NO – BLAKE – GET AWAY – ”

Blake struggles under Schofield’s weight, fighting to get loose, the flames reflected in his eyes and framing his face in a hellish orange glow. “Let me go – we’ve got to help – he’s burning alive, Sco!” 

In that moment, something snaps inside Schofield, a frenzied wildness. He abandons all composure and fights like a madman, clawing at Blake’s shoulders, screaming and shouting and crying. Tears run freely down his face. “NO! NO! IT’S GOING TO EXPLODE! GET AWAY BLAKE PLEASE –” 

Blake is sturdier, stronger than Schofield, his frame built for wrestling as Schofield’s is for running. For a beat he stills under Schofield’s hands, frightened at Schofield’s crazed ferocity. Then he shoves against Schofield’s scrabbling hands, teeth bared. “He’s German, but he’s still human, Sco! Let me go, you heartless bastard –”

Schofield hears the pilot’s foot jam against the fuel switch with an audible click.

KABOOM.

A massive, solid wall of burning air slams into Schofield where he is hunched over Blake, and throws him head over heels clear into the air. For an instant he is weightless. Then Schofield’s whole right side smashes into the stone of the farmhouse opposite with the force of a mallet hitting solid rock. 

Schofield hears the crack of the impact, and blacks out for a moment. When the stars clear in his vision, a wave of such intense pain radiates from his right elbow and side that he promptly rolls over and throws up raw acid. He lets out a muffled scream into the dirt, face half-buried in the ground.

“Sco – Sco – oh God, Sco –” Blake’s voice, fast, panicking. A warm hand slides under Schofield’s cheek, bracing his head against a wool sleeve.

Schofield is dimly aware that he has bitten through his tongue. The taste of iron floods his mouth and drips out of the corner of his lips. His breath comes in great, heaving gasps against the white-hot burning in his arm and side.

“Breathe, Sco, just breathe. Oh God, I’m so sorry Sco I’m sorry I’m sorry –” Blake sounds distraught. Schofield feels Blake’s forehead press against his, and there are tears running down his temples that aren’t his own.

Time passes. Rough gravel and shattered wood dig painfully into Schofield’s back and legs. He keeps breathing, eyes screwed shut. Each inhale brings a fresh wave of excruciating throbbing in his ribs and right elbow. For an indeterminable time he can barely think past the pain, but by and by the darkness recedes, just enough for Schofield to crack open his eyelids. 

The buttons on Blake’s jacket come into blurred focus. His head is in Blake’s arms. 

“Sco?” Blake, from above him, soft, scared. 

Schofield spits out the blood in his mouth. Tries to answer, but all that comes out is a wheezing exhale. He whimpers as the pain flares in his side. 

Then, a clear, bright voice from across the yard – “You alright, mate?” The sound of more than one set of footsteps drawing near. Underneath Schofield’s head, Blake’s arms shift. 

“Help him, please, he’s hurt –” Blake’s voice, choked up. Schofield closes his eyes again. His body starts to tremble uncontrollably. 

“Let me through.” A warm, quiet baritone. Captain Smith. A gentle hand, warm on Schofield’s forehead. Then, softly from somewhere above him – “Private – go fetch a medic.” A pause. “What happened, Lance Corporal?”

Blake babbles, voice thick with tears. “The plane – it crashed, and we – I – wanted to help the pilot and he tried to stop me and then the plane exploded and the blast caught him and he hit the wall and it made such an awful sound, it was my fault sir –”

“Hush now, he’ll be alright.” Captain Smith’s voice is gentle, commanding. “We’ll get his ribs wrapped and arm splinted and send you back with him over no man’s land. We’ve cleaned the Huns since Bapaume, it should be a clear run back.”

Schofield blinks open his eyes at this, struggles to speak. “No – we’ve –” his teeth chatter as he continues to shake, cutting his words short. The uneven ground is agony on his ribs.

Captain Smith’s hand returns to Schofield’s forehead. He smiles reassuringly. “Relax, son. You’re in shock.”

Blake thankfully answers for Schofield. “We can’t go back sir. We’ve got an urgent message for the Second Devons, past Écoust. Orders to stop tomorrow morning’s attack. It’s a trap, sir – sixteen hundred men.”

There’s a moment of silence as Captain Smith seems to process this. The hand on Schofield’s forehead stills, then withdraws. “We're passing through Écoust,” the Captain says finally. “We can take you some of the way. But this one should go back, we’ll just have to send someone else to go back with him.”

A wave of denial rises up in Schofield. “No.” he rasps out. “I can make it, sir. I’m alright.” He grits his teeth and tries to raise his head. Nausea rises and he nearly throws up again. “I’ve got to go sir –”

Above him, Blake interrupts. “Sir, he’s got to come with me. He knows the way. He’s, um, been through Écoust before sir – headquarters intelligence. I won’t make it through without him.”

Schofield goes still. Did he hear that right? Does – does Blake finally believe that he’s done this before? A wild hope rises, catching in his throat. His uninjured left hand scrabbles through the dirt until it latches on to Blake’s hand tightly. There’s a question in his grip. Do you finally believe me?

Blake squeezes his hand back. 

Schofield lets out a half-sob of relief and closes his eyes. It must have sounded like a whimper of pain because Captain Smith makes a low, commiserating noise. It is soothing nonetheless, and Schofield allows himself to drift for a moment.

A patter of hurried footsteps around the corner of the yard. “Out of the way please.” There is a note of steely command in the voice that only medics dare to use against a ranking officer. Muted, as if through a wall of water, Schofield hears the Captain explain the situation.

The medic’s voice again. “Understood.” Then, much closer – “Eyes open please.” 

Schofield cracks his eyelids open. The medic’s features swim into vision, sharp eyes on an angled face. The medic looks over Schofield, and without warning reaches down and presses quick, assessing hands against his ribs, his right elbow. 

Schofield’s field of vision goes bone-white. He sucks in a ragged gasp of air that comes back out as a strangled groan. Blake’s hand tightens around his in sympathy. “Shh, Sco, shh,” Blake comforts, close to Schofield’s ear.

The medic snaps out orders, professional, leaving Schofield no time to brace himself. “Right. Let’s get him sitting up – Captain, you take his right side, push against his shoulder only please. Private, hold his right arm still, don't let that elbow shift. Lance Corporal, take his left side. Try not to bend his torso if you can. On count of three. One, two, three –”

Schofield lets out a short scream. In that instant, Schofield’s elbow throbs with white fire. His ribs feel like they are splintering into his lungs. Then Schofield’s back is against the stone wall of the farmhouse, Blake and Captain Smith are holding him up by his shoulders. 

The medic makes blessedly quick work of wrapping Schofield’s ribs, and eases his arm into a sling. With the weight taken off his elbow and his ribs bound, the fog in Schofield’s head lifts slightly. “Thank you,” he manages to grind out. Cold sweat drips down his temples.

The medic flicks his gaze up to Schofield’s, then down at Schofield’s arm. He turns to the Captain. “I can’t recommend that he continues up to Écoust. Ribs are broken. It will be hard for him to breathe. That elbow isn’t broken, but I think something’s torn inside the joint. He won’t be able to shoot a rifle without doing himself more harm.”

A grim darkness descends on Schofield. He places his left hand on Blake’s shoulder and levers himself up on his feet with a whimper of effort. His head swims, and he wavers as he stands. “I’m alright, sir,” Schofield says through gritted teeth. Blake wraps an arm around his shoulders, steadying him.

Captain Smith looks politely aghast. “No, son, you’re not. You should go back.” A pause. “I could make it an order.”

Schofield’s eyes brim with unshed tears. “Please sir. I have a mission to finish. Orders from headquarters, sir.” He stares at the Captain, unblinking, determined.

Captain Smith looks at Schofield. He sees something here that causes his expression to shift. “Very well,” he says softly. “Come. You can both ride in the casuals truck.” He turns and walks up towards the track, coat swinging against the heels of his boots.

Schofield struggles up after the Captain, feet slipping in the muddy grass. Blake presses close to his left side, trying to take as much of Schofield’s weight as possible.

“Sco –” Blake whispers in an undertone, “Sco – I’m sorry. It’s my fault you’re hurt. I didn’t listen and now you’re in pain and it’s all my fault.” Blake’s voice grows thick with guilt, his words tumbling over each other. “I should have believed you and I’m just so, so sorry Sco – ” 

“– Later, Blake, please.” Schofield grinds out, teeth clenched. 

Blake goes quiet immediately. He seems to shrink in on himself.

Schofield grits his teeth in wordless frustration. He hadn’t meant that as a rejection of Blake’s apology. Each of Schofield’s breaths is a strangled hiss, and it takes all his concentration just to put one foot in front of the other. He has no capacity for this conversation right now.

They reach the dirt track, drawing level with Captain Smith. The Captain begins to speak with the Colonel, but the Colonel takes one look at Schofield and waves them back towards the trucks. “Fine, fine. Just get him sitting down, for heaven’s sake. He looks like he’s about to fall over.”

Captain Smith nods. “Thank you sir.” He leads them carefully to the back of the convoy. There’s a score of men sitting in the dark interior of the idling truck, mostly shabbily equipped Privates, a few Sepoys. 

Schofield feels the weight of their curious stares. He can’t bring himself to care. Schofield doesn’t remember the step up into the back of the truck being so damn high.

The Captain meets Blake’s eyes. Wordlessly, they each take Schofield under his arms and heave him up. Stars burst in Schofield’s vision. “Someone catch him!” Blake shouts, as Schofield tumbles forward. A Sepoy steps up and takes him by his shoulders, guiding him to sit on the right side, above the wheel. He holds him there, until Blake scrambles in to sit on Schofield’s uninjured side and support his weight. “Thanks mate,” Blake says. 

The Captain looks up at Blake and Schofield, then at the rest of the men in the truck. “It’ll be a tight squeeze. Don’t jostle him, medic’s orders.” A mumbled chorus of assent. 

Captain Smith’s gaze comes to a rest on Blake. “You look after him, lad.”

“Yes, sir.” No hesitation. 

The Captain claps a hand on the sidepost of the truck and disappears out of view. His footsteps fade away.

The truck engine starts. Chatter breaks out among the men. “Alright, here we go again boys.” “Yeah, the bus to effing knows where –” “You got a fag?” “Not giving you any of mine, am I –” “Oh shut up –” 

Schofield braces himself, but every bump and shudder of the metal frame of the truck sends agonising sparks through his elbow and ribs. With a dull grimace, he realises he is sitting right over the rear wheel suspension, bouncing with the uneven track. Too late to move now. Schofield screws his eyes shut against the pain and tilts his head back against the shaking canvas wall.

A moment later, he feels the gentle touch of Blake’s fingers on his temples, easing his helmet to one side and guiding his head to rest on Blake’s shoulder. The warm wool of Blake’s jacket is solid and firm under his cheek. He relaxes minutely –

– the truck judders over a rock, and the man on his right side lurches, his full body weight slamming into Schofield’s injured elbow. 

Schofield mouth opens in a silent scream. The man – a Private – sits back up with a muttered “Sorry, mate”. Schofield curls up instinctively over his right arm and tries not to throw up on the floor of the truck. The back of his throat burns with acid.

“OI – watch it, will you!” Blake shouts angrily over Schofield at the Private. “He’s in enough pain without an ass like you making it worse, didn’t you hear the Captain say –”

Schofield blindly finds Blake’s knee with his good hand, quieting him. “It’s alright, Blake,” he gasps out, trying to breathe.

The Private looks at Schofield, properly this time, and bites his lip. “Really am sorry mate,” he says, contrite.

Schofield nods wordlessly, still bent over his knees. He feels Blake’s gentle grasp on his head again and gingerly returns to leaning on Blake’s shoulder.

Schofield lets himself drift into a haze. The last of the adrenaline from the farmhouse drains out of him, leaving him bone-tired and aching. For the first time, Schofield becomes aware of the piercing pain in his hands, the torn tips of fingers still stained red from digging Blake out of the cave-in. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Blake reaches for Schofield’s fingers with one hand, digging in his jacket for a roll of bandages with another. “Has anyone got any scissors?”

Several men shake their head, but the Sepoy’s eyes soften as he stands, bent over under the low roof of the truck. He makes his way up the shaking aisle and crouches in front of Blake. “Here,” he says, pulling a medical tin from his breast pocket.

Blake shifts to reach for his canteen from his pack. Schofield grunts as the movement jostles him. Blake twists back round. “Sorry, Sco.”

Blake and the Sepoy get to work quietly. The Sepoy cuts small strips from the bandage. Blake cradles Schofield’s bloodied hands and washes each torn finger clean.

“You’re getting your boots all wet,” Schofield croaks, eyes half open.

“I don’t mind,” Blake says firmly. He reaches for Schofield’s other hand, careful not to put pressure on Schofield’s injured elbow, and does the same.

There’s a little pile of white strips on Blake’s knee by now. The Sepoy gives Blake a nod and retreats into the front of the truck.

Blake takes each of Schofield’s nail-less fingers in his hands and painstakingly dresses and wraps them, one by one. Every movement is deliberate, careful, apologetic. Schofield doesn’t stop Blake. They can’t have a conversation right now about the farmhouse and the plane and Schofield having done all this before, not in front of this audience. With no way of apologising to Schofield in a truckful of men, Blake is saying sorry the only way he knows how. A corner of Schofield’s mouth lifts.

Blake finishes tying the last tiny white cap on Schofield’s little finger with intense concentration. 

“Thanks, Blake”, Scho says tiredly. He feels Blake smile against the top of his head.

KA-KOOMPF.

The truck lurches violently. The back wheel spins uselessly in a large pothole, a whirring shriek. Blake manages to shield Schofield from the brunt of the impact, but Schofield still bites through his lip at the sudden flare of agony in his arm and side. 

The floor of the truck is tilted at an angle. Blake takes one look out the back and says, “Wheel’s stuck, we’ve all got to get out.”

The men mutter and grouse, but clamber out over Blake and Schofield’s legs. Blake is the last to go. Schofield braces himself to climb out after him, but Blake puts an arm across his front. “You stay inside, Sco,” he says, almost commandingly.

“You’ll never get it going with me inside –”

Someone in the little crowd of men outside pipes up. “Just effing stay inside the effing truck, mate. Ain’t going to help anyone trying to play the hero.”

Schofield’s face warms. He settles back down against the support struts, and listens to the men outside trying to figure out how to get the truck moving.

“Maybe he should reverse it.” “Yeah maybe?” “That’s a lot of mud though…” The truck engine revs uselessly, flinging up mud. The men exclaim in disgust.

Inside the truck, alone, Schofield shakes his head, almost to himself. 

Blake catches Schofield’s eye. “Are we going to have to lift it?” he asks, like one asking a prophet. 

It is absurdly amusing. “Yes,” Schofield says, holding back a weary laugh.

Blake waves the other men forward. They bunch up against the back of the truck, reluctant. Blake squares his shoulders. “On three. One, two, three!” The men strain against the weight of the truck as the engine throttles mightly. The truck lifts off its rear wheel with a groan of metal, then settles back down with a thump.

Some of the men are eyeing Schofield. Schofield shifts his weight forward, preparing to stand. “I should come off –”

“Stay where you are, Sco!” Blake barks up at him, a sharp edge to his voice. Schofield blinks. Blake has never used that tone with him before. In the same moment, Blake seems to realise this too. He checks himself, looking slightly abashed. 

Then a bullish determination returns to Blake’s expression, and he turns away from Schofield, rounds on the other men. “We can do this. Come on!” The men do not look convinced. They shift about, muttering. Schofield sees the back of Blake’s shoulders rise in frustration.

“Come on! Together!” Blake shouts. The men begrudgingly file in next to Blake. Schofield stays as still as possible. He watches silently as Blake and the men struggle and fail to lift the truck, again and again.

“Blake,” Schofield says gently. He moves to stand. 

Blake shakes his head roughly, eyes fixed straight ahead, his round face red with effort. “ONE LAST TIME! TOGETHER! ONE, TWO, THREE –” 

Blake yells out with effort, feet sinking into the mud – the truck revs up and out of the pothole. The men cheer, and filter back onto the truck. A few pat Blake on the back. “Good job, mate.”

“Yeah”, Blake says, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. His eyes are wet. Schofield watches him wordlessly. Blake sits down next to Schofield again, hiding a sniff. He doesn’t meet Schofield’s gaze.

“You and your mate, shift up here.” The Sepoy looks down at them, pointing up to the front of the truck. “He shouldn’t be sitting over the rear wheel.”

Schofield nods. “Thank you.” Blake takes his good arm and they stumble hunch-backed to the front of the cabin. 

They sit. Blake still won’t look at Schofield. Schofield doesn’t push him. Instead, he just drops his head onto Blake’s shoulder again, without being prompted. He feels Blake release a breath that is almost a sob. Schofield closes his eyes.

“So what’s happened to him then?” 

Schofield cracks open his eyelids. He feels Blake tense under his cheek as the chatter in the truck slowly dies away. 

There is a long pause. Schofield doesn’t look up at Blake, but he sees the Private who had asked the question grow more and more uncomfortable as the silence stretches on. 

“I – there was –” Blake’s voice, shaky with unshed tears. “I didn’t –” Guilt and remorse lies heavy in each stuttered word.

Schofield clears his throat wearily. A score of eyes land on him. “There was a plane. With an effing Hun in it. It exploded. That’s it.” His voice comes out as a rough rasp.

That seems to be enough to sate the men’s curiosity. “Bad luck mate,” someone mutters up in the front. A few of the men echo him.

Schofield goes to close his eyes again. But before he can, Blake speaks from above him, in a very small voice. “You didn’t mention how it was my fault, Sco.” 

Schofield sighs, and suppresses a wince at the answering twinge in his ribs. His good arm is trapped between Blake’s webbing and his side, but he taps the back of his fingers against Blake’s jacket, reassuring. “It’s alright, Blake,” he says tiredly. “I’m not angry at you. I’m just glad you’re alive.” 

Blake swallows audibly, and finally relaxes. “I’m glad you’re alive too,” he mumbles, almost inaudible. Then, more clearly, “Are we staying with this lot through Écoust, then? That’s good. For you, I mean. We should keep you off your feet you know –” Blake chatters on, voice steadying as he regains his confidence.

The mention of Écoust chills Schofield to the bone. He had been focused for so long on getting Blake past the pilot that he had shoved all thoughts of the horrors of Écoust entirely away. Now the walls of his carefully compartmentalised thoughts are breaking down. The crack of the sniper’s rifle – the burning in his lungs as he ran for his life – the unsettling shift of flares and shadows and burning hellfire – the feeling of the bones in the young German soldier’s neck cracking under his fingers – 

In a Sieve they went to sea. The baby’s innocent smile.

The truck squeals to a stop. 

A cry, from the front of the convoy. “Bridge is down!”

Schofield swallows bile. Écoust. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm absurdly proud of my little Doc Roe reference hidden in there.
> 
> So. What's Écoust without a torn elbow and broken ribs, am I right?
> 
> As always, if any of you would like to chat I have a tumblr - handle is @wafflesrisa. Inbox is open!
> 
> Comments would be most welcome - always up for a chat!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schofield struggles on.
> 
> Trigger/content warnings mentioned for previous chapters continue to apply to each chapter.

“Bridge is down!”

The shout echoes down the convoy. Blake startles, reflexively drawing Schofield in tighter to his side where they sit in the dim interior of the truck.

Schofield lifts his head off Blake’s shoulder, takes a steadying breath. “Blake, this is us – we’re getting off.”

Blake cranes his head to peer towards the open end of the truck. “We’re not going through Écoust with them?” A soft note of bewilderment enters his voice. He turns back to face Schofield, shoulders curving inwards, distressed, protective. “We can’t go through Écoust on _foot_! Your arm – your ribs –” Blake’s hands hover over the sling on Schofield’s right elbow and the bulky white bandages around his broken ribs, visible through his loosely bound jacket. 

Schofield shakes his head, swallowing. Cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck. He speaks low and fast. “There’s no way around it, Blake. We’ve got no time. Next bridge is –”

Captain Smith appears around the back of the truck, a grim look on his face. “Next bridge is six miles. We’ll have to divert.” His gaze falls on Blake briefly and comes to a rest on Schofield. He softens. “You should stay with us, lads. Best to follow medic’s orders.”

Beside Schofield, Blake looks torn. His face is an open book. On one hand, staying in the truck would be far better for his friend in his condition. On the other, six miles is a long diversion, risking a delay to their message to the Second Devons and to his brother. 

If only there were a real choice. Tucked in the side of Schofield’s pack, the canteen of fresh milk sloshes quietly. _In a Sieve they went to sea…_ Schofield claps a hand on Blake’s shoulder, levering himself to his feet with a suppressed groan. “There’s no time. We’ll make our own way from here. Thank you, Captain.”

Blake looks askance at Schofield, opens his mouth as if to protest – 

“ – Here, Blake, give me a hand.” Schofield cuts Blake off before he has a chance to speak. He staggers his way to the edge of the truck, leaning on Blake for support. Blake scrambles out and down onto the ground first, reaching up to help Schofield down. Blake and the Captain each take one of Schofield’s shoulders. 

Schofield still stumbles on impact. His ribs scream in protest, and he closes his eyes briefly against the pain. “I’m alright, I’m alright,” he grates out, feeling Blake immediately press close. 

The men in the truck pipe up, one by one. “Good luck then.” “Good luck, mate.” “Don’t stuff it up.” 

The Sepoy smiles at them, nods farewell. “Best of luck.” Blake nods back.

Schofield steels himself, and looks at what is to come. It is exactly as he remembers. Across the murky industrial canal, the jagged ruins of Écoust sprawl out ahead of them, a grey, forbidding vista. The sun is now low towards the horizon, casting long, blue shadows from the crumbled buildings in the fading light. Schofield lets his eyes roam over the broken iron bridge and to the base of the lock house on the opposite bank. Careful to keep his posture neutral, unaffected, he glances up to the second storey window.

There!

The glint of the setting sun off a sniper gun barrel, barely visible. 

Every muscle in Schofield’s body goes tense. He lets his gaze carefully slide away, back towards the convoy. 

There is an unhappy set to Captain Smith’s jaw as his eyes flick from Schofield’s wounds to the crumbled silhouette of Écoust across the canal. “You are very brave,” he says quietly to both of them. “You should both be proud. Take care, now.” He claps Blake on the shoulder, and extends his left hand towards Schofield. 

Schofield returns Captain Smith’s handshake firmly with his uninjured left hand. Without letting go, he leans in towards the Captain and says in a low voice, “Captain, there’s a sniper across the canal, in the top window of the lock house – no Blake, don’t look!” 

Blake jerks his head back down at Schofield’s hissed command, fingers suddenly white on the strap of his rifle. 

Captain Smith’s gaze darkens. His gloved fingers tighten in Schofield’s grip. The Captain nods, straightens, and casually walks up to one of the trucks further up the convoy. He leans in the back and beckons to a man with a long-range rifle, speaking too quietly to be heard. 

Schofield watches him go, tight-lipped. He feels the gaze of the sniper in the lock house on the back of his head, a prowling leopard stalking prey for the kill. The hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Next to him, Blake is trembling with tension. “Sco – how can we – how did you get past before – ”

“Shhh.” Schofield hushes Blake, eyes fixed on Captain Smith. 

The man speaking to the Captain retreats into the darkness of the truck. From Schofield’s angle, he can see the man press up against the interior wall on the side facing the canal, presumably against a hole in the canvas. The man scrambles back out towards the Captain, shakes his head. The Captain speaks again, low, urgent, and the man goes to try again –

“Captain Smith! What is the damn hold up?” The Colonel’s belligerent shout sounds from the front of the convoy. 

Schofield very clearly sees Captain Smith’s mouth flatten into a thin line. The Captain leaves his cane on the floor of the truck and strides quickly up to the Colonel’s car. Words are exchanged, too quick and tense to be heard from this distance, but Schofield sees the frustration build in Captain Smith’s frame with every second passing. 

Schofield grits his teeth. “Blake,” he says quietly, out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yes?” Blake answers too quickly, snapping his head round to look up at Schofield. He is practically vibrating, a taut string. 

“We may have to make a run for it.” Schofield swallows past the dryness in his throat, forces his voice to stay even. “Even if the Captain can’t give us covering fire, the sniper won’t risk exposing his position when there’s two whole platoons’ worth of soldiers right here. When the convoy moves off, then he’ll make his move. So get ready.”

Schofield hears Blake mutter a chain of panicked curses under his breath.

Ahead, the Colonel slams his hand on the dashboard of his car with a crack of sound. “Just get this _goddamned_ convoy on the move! That’s an order!” he shouts. 

The Captain’s spine straightens. He nods once, sharp. Turns and walks quickly back towards Schofield and Blake. Schofield can see the blazing anger in his eyes, barely repressed. When the Captain reaches them, he speaks quickly. “Go, now,” he says. “I believe you, but my rifleman can’t pick out the Hun.” He lets out a huff of breath, glances back at the Colonel’s car. “I’ll delay moving off as long as I can. God be with you, lads. Go. Go now!”

Schofield whips around and makes a beeline for the broken bridge, ribs throbbing angrily at the movement. Blake overtakes him, reaches the end of the bridge first, but hesitates at the slanting metal slope into the brackish water.

“Up on the rail!” Schofield hisses, rushing after Blake. Blake nods, slinging his rifle across the back of his pack and hauling himself up onto the narrow rail with a grunt. 

Blake shuffles around precariously, grasps Schofield’s forearm, and heaves him up. The movement stretches Schofield’s ribs. He lurches, dark spots clouding his vision. 

“Sco!” Blake’s hands, steadying him as he nearly tips forward – 

“– I’m okay,” Schofield gasps, breathless. He pushes Blake forward. Schofield’s boots skid and slide on the iron-studded rail as they slip down towards where the downed bridge meets the water. _Go go go –_

Behind them, Schofield hears the truck engines start. “Blake, we have to move!” His hands shove against Blake’s jacket. Blake’s shoulders are knotted tight with fear.

“I know!” Blake says, taut with tension. When he reaches where the dark water meets the downed rail, he braces his feet and flings himself across the ten-foot gap to the other side. He lands with a pained _oomph_ , hands scrabbling for purchase on the iron struts, feet flailing in the water. Blake levers himself back up onto the side of the bridge with some difficulty. His mutter drifts back towards Schofield across the water. “That _effing_ hurt!” 

The rumble of the convoy behind Schofield grows further and further away. Schofield looks at the gap at Blake, at the rigid curve of the metal supports on the opposite side of the bridge. He braces himself. This is going to painful – 

“Catch me!” Schofield hisses across. Blake nods frantically, straining out towards Schofield, hand outstretched.

Schofield hurls himself across the gap – 

CRACK. 

A bullet strikes the water, passing a bare inch from Blake’s outstretched hand. Blake yelps in surprise, snatching his hand back –

“CATCH ME –”

Schofield’s full bodyweight slams into the rail of the bridge, striking the whole left side of his torso. The breath is instantly punched from his body as a massive, excruciating wave of pain explodes from his ribs.

Schofield lets out a piercing scream. He blacks out for a moment, tumbling towards the water – 

– a hand closes on the back of his collar just as Schofield’s legs begin to plunge into the water, hauling him upwards, putting even more pressure on his ribs and jarring his torn elbow – 

Schofield screams again, throat raw. 

Blake curses above him – 

CRACK. 

A second shot, right past Schofield’s ear, nicking it and drawing a spurt of blood. Blake utters an almighty roar of effort and heaves Schofield to the metal latticework next to him. Schofield clings on with his left arm, winded, trying to breathe past the agony – 

CRACK.

A bullet ricochets off a support strut, taking a coin-sized semicircle out of the edge of Blake’s helmet. Blake leans into Schofield’s ear. “WE HAVE TO MOVE NOW, SCO! NOW!”

Blake’s desperation gets through to Schofield. Nearly blinded by the pain, Schofield flings his left arm to the next cross-strut, and then the next, feeling like his ribs must surely be tearing through his skin – 

CRACK.

The shot hisses past them as Schofield drops like a sack of potatoes under the bridge, landing roughly against the canal bank. He rolls onto his back against the wall, gasping. The concrete tears roughly against his back. 

Blake lands with a rattle next to Schofield, scrambling to crouch over him, hands shaking. “Sco – can you breathe – Sco?”

Schofield nods, unable to speak. A wheezing groan escapes his lips – 

CRACK. Stone dust spits out over their heads as a bullet hits the cobblestone bank above them.

Blake ducks, swearing. Schofield gulps in a full breath at last, rolls over to his knees. His chest heaves. “Go – I’ll – covering fire –” Schofield gets shakily to his feet, head reeling. “Go!” he hisses sharply. “Under the bridge – there are steps on the right – ”

Blake scurries forward under the shadow of the bridge, pressed tight against the high canal bank. He skitters to a stop at the corner of the wall. Schofield nearly runs into his back. Before them is a flight of steps leading up to the cobblestone street. Blake turns his head to look at Schofield – a pinched, terrified look – and darts across the gap to fling himself against the railing on the far side of the steps. 

CRACK.

The bullet skips off the top of the stairs, skimming past at the level of Blake’s helmet. Blake suppresses a cry, back pressed right up against the iron railing. He clutches his rifle to him, breathing hard, face pale and frightened.

Across the steps from Blake, Schofield tilts his head back against the corner of the canal bank and screws his eyes shut. He takes a moment to try to breathe. Alright. He can do this. Gritting his teeth, he begins easing his injured right elbow out of the sling. Stars immediately explode in his vision. He sucks in a pained breath and keeps going, until his whole arm is free. 

“What are you doing? Stop that! Sco!” Blake hisses across at him, eyes blazing.

Schofield shakes his rifle off his shoulder and into his left hand. He meets Blake’s eyes, his voice low, insistent. “I’ll keep him busy – you run across the courtyard and up to the ledge directly under the window. He can’t get you from that angle. I’ll join you after.”

Blake looks scandalised at the idea, fear instantly forgotten. “No you will _not_ – your arm, Sco – ”

Schofield shakes his head roughly, and with a fierce wrench, flexes his injured right elbow and puts the rifle to his shoulder. The resulting spasm of pain sets the nerves in his arm blazing with white fire. For a moment, Schofield thinks he is going to throw up over the stock of his rifle. His hands shake.

CRACK.

Another sniper bullet ricochets down the steps between them. Adrenaline hits, and with it, a savage clarity. Schofield dashes halfway up the stairs, sights down the barrel, and pulls the trigger – CRACK – the bullet smashes into the wooden window frame on the second storey – Schofield swears harshly, pulls back the bolt on his rifle with his right hand – searing agony in his arm – the empty bullet case flies off the barrel with a sharp clink – takes aim – CRACK – the bullet is swallowed by the gloom of the window this time, the glint of the sniper’s rifle wavering – Schofield pulls back the bolt again – the pain is almost unbearable – 

“JUST EFFING GO, BLAKE!” Schofield roars, half crazed with the pain. 

Schofield feels Blake shove past him, scrabbling on the steps up to the street. Blake makes a mad dash for the lock house, feet slapping loud on the cobblestones, pack swinging wildly. 

Schofield fixes his gaze on the black square of darkness on the second floor and fires his rifle again and again and again, each _crack_ sending jagged spikes of agony through his ribs and elbow. He feels something rip and tear in the joint. The metallic taste of blood floods against Schofield’s lips. He can’t breathe. _Have to keep shooting until Blake is clear – keep shooting_ _–_

Blake reaches the door of the lock house, looks back at Schofield. In that instant, Schofield realises his mistake. 

He hadn’t told Blake to wait.

A rush of horror floods up Schofield’s chest, wrapping around his throat. “NO – BLAKE – STOP!” he screams across the courtyard. 

Blake meets Schofield’s eyes. Shakes his head, determined. Tightens his grip on his rifle and shoulders his way through the door of the lock house, swallowed whole by the darkness. 

_No._ Schofield runs up the stairs towards the street.

CRACK.

The bullet catches the edge of Schofield’s helmet and rips it off his head. The impact is like a solid punch to his skull. Schofield reels back. For an instant, memory rises like an unstoppable tide – the unfeeling grip of the Mauser pistol in his hand, the cold tip of the barrel against his own forehead, Captain Smith’s look of horror, Blake’s unseeing eyes –

Choking down a sob, Schofield yanks himself back into the present, throwing himself almost prone on the steps. He raises his rifle, half-blind. Takes the shot. CRACK – an answering wave of agony arcs up his arm. Schofield leans to one side and spits up blood on the cobblestones. His clenched teeth have cut up the inside of his mouth.

Schofield doesn’t wait to see if the sniper backs away from the window. He hurls himself across the courtyard at a desperate run – feet pounding against the stone ground, shoulders drawn tight, expecting the impact of a bullet at any moment – 

Schofield barrels through the lock house door, chest heaving. Wooden stars spiral upwards in the gloom. “Blake!” he shouts up the stairwell, craning his head. No movement from upstairs. “BLAKE!” Schofield bellows again. There’s a raw wildness in his voice.

Taking one painful step at a time, ribs burning, Schofield stumbles upwards in the darkness. His boots catch on broken splinters of shattered wood. He grits his teeth and struggles on.

CRACK.

Above him, a single gunshot. A thump of something heavy tumbling down the stairs –

Silence.

Schofield shudders in ice-cold terror. _No._ For a half-second, he is frozen, unable to move. “Blake?” he calls out, a tremble in his voice.

No answer.

Schofield climbs on upwards, heart thundering in his ears. He rounds the corner of the last flight of stairs, panting – 

On the landing, Blake’s helmet, broken in two. And Blake’s rifle, discharged.

The door to the room is half open. Weak light streams through the glass panes at the top of the frame.

No sound.

Schofield thinks he might be sick. He creeps forward, eases the door open with the tip of his rifle, the bitter taste of dread in in his mouth –

His eyes widen. 

Blake is on his knees over the German soldier, a young man with bloodshot eyes and dark hair. A trail of red runs down Blake’s temple, dripping round circles of blood on the floor. 

Blake’s hands are around the soldier’s throat.

The German scrabbles uselessly against Blake’s hands. A wheezing rattle escapes the soldier’s half-open lips. 

There’s a crazed look in Blake’s eyes. Schofield recognises it. Fight or die. Kill or be killed. Blake leans in, teeth bared, his full weight bearing down on the dying German.

An echo, from memory. _Engländer!_

Blake is too close to the German to risk Schofield firing a shot. Schofield steps forward –

SNAP.

The soldier’s spine breaks under Blake’s thumbs. 

The light dies in the soldier’s eyes. He goes limp. 

Blake flings himself away from the body, tripping over his own feet. The back of Blake’s shoulders smash against the opposite wall of the room. There he stays, shivering, eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the soldier’s collapsed throat. His hands are covered in blood.

The dying light of the sunset filters through the broken edges of the window. Schofield closes his eyes for a long, long moment, wills his pounding heart to slow. The sniper is dead. Blake is alive. 

Schofield opens his eyes again. Takes slow, careful steps towards the huddled ball that is Blake, like one approaches a frightened animal. Schofield’s hands are still frozen on his rifle. With difficulty, he kneels in front of Blake, blocking the view of the dead German. “Blake,” he says softly.

Blake snaps his head up, eyes large and round and haunted. “Sco?” The name comes out as a question, high-pitched, broken.

“Yes, Blake,” Schofield says, still quiet. “It’s alright. It’s over now. I’m alright. You’re alright.”

“I – I –” Blake stutters. His fists clench and unclench, drawing bloody furrows into the wooden floorboards.

Schofield finally manages to get his own fingers to unclench from his rifle. The rifle clatters to the ground. Blake flinches at the noise, shaking. 

“Shhh. I’m sorry, Blake,” Schofield soothes. He tips forward on his knees towards Blake, wrapping his left arm around Blake’s shoulders and pressing him lightly to his chest. His right arm hangs useless by his side. “I’m here. It’s alright, you did well.”

Blake shudders in his hold, face pressed against Schofield’s sternum. “I – I _killed_ – ” Blake breaks off into a choking sob.

Schofield hushes him. When Schofield speaks, it is even, gentle. “Yes, you killed him.” Blake stiffens in his grasp, trembling. Schofield carries on. “You had to, Blake. There was no other way. He was trying to kill us.” Schofield swallows, shifts his hand up to rest in Blake’s hair. “You saved us, Blake. You saved us.” 

Schofield closes his eyes. How many soldiers had died under his hands, down the barrel of his rifle? But this was Blake’s first. He lowers his head to rest against Blake’s hair, murmuring softly. 

By and by, Blake stills in Schofield’s hold, and his arms rise falteringly to hug Schofield back.

The pressure against Schofield’s ribs draws a ragged gasp from him. Blake looks up immediately, eyes round. “Shit – Sco – I forgot – ”

Schofield doesn’t answer. He feels Blake’s hands on his shoulders, and he allows himself to be gently guided to sit against the wall next to Blake. He slumps against the wall, trying to breathe past the fire in his lungs. Drops of sweat run down his temples and into his eyes. His right arm is a limp, swollen bundle of cut muscle and shrieking nerve endings. 

Blake crouches by Schofield, hands hovering over his arm. “Um…” Blake starts to say, uncertain, worried.

Schofield screws his eyes shut. “You need to get it back into the sling.” Each word is punctuated by a harsh breath, gasped through clenched teeth. 

Schofield can hear Blake muttering to himself under this breath. “Okay, okay, okay, you can do this…” 

Blake’s fingers, still slick with blood, close around Schofield’s wrist and elbow. Blake bends the joint gingerly.

Schofield opens his eyes and screams like a wounded animal. 

Blake yells out loud, nearly dropping Schofield’s arm. “Don’t _do_ that! That scared me Sco!” Blake’s hands start shaking again.

Schofield pants, head turned away from his arm, eyes shut. “I can’t help it, Blake!” His voice nearly breaks. A warm wetness builds under his eyelids. “Just – just do it quickly.” He swallows, tongue thick and cottonlike in this mouth. “And give me something to bite on, I’m going to go through my tongue at this rate.”

Schofield hears Blake rifle through his webbing, and feels the careful touch of Blake’s hand on his chin. A wadge of folded bandages presses against his lips. He bites down hard, turns away from his arm. “Do it,” he says, muffled.

The warm touch of Blake’s fingers on his wrist and elbow again. In one, smooth motion, Blake bends Schofield’s arm at the elbow and slips it back into the sling. 

Schofield screams once through the gag, spine rigid with agony. Blake’s hands are warm on his shoulder and the side of his head, uselessly trying to comfort.

Finally managing to open his eyes, Schofield spits out the gag. The white of the bandages is stained red. He leans his head back against wall. “Don’t think I’ll be firing my rifle again anytime soon,” he says tiredly.

“Yeah,” Blake says from beside him, uncharacteristically quiet. 

Schofield drops his head limply onto Blake’s shoulder. A moment passes, and he feels Blake also lower his head to rest on top of his.

They sit like that for a while, just listening to each other breathe. The red-orange shadow of the setting sun inches slowly across the peeling wallpaper. 

Schofield knows Blake is looking at the corpse of the dead German. 

“Blake.” The name comes out as a rasp.

“Hmm?”

Schofield clears his throat roughly. “Stop looking at it. Doesn’t help.”

A shudder runs through Blake. Schofield feels the tremor under his cheek. 

Blake doesn’t reply for a minute or so. Then he speaks very quietly, almost in a whisper. “I can’t stop looking at him. I’ve never – it made such an awful sound when I – and I _felt_ –” Blake chokes off.

Schofield knows what Blake is trying to say. His own memory rises ghostlike in his fingers, of the bones in the young German’s neck giving way. He swallows bile. “Shhh, Blake. It’ll be alright.” He raises his good hand up and over until he finds Blake’s hair and just rests his palm there, comforting. “It’s still better not to look. Believe me, I know.”

At this, Blake bristles under his touch. “How would –” Blake struggles to grind the words out, unthinking, voice laden with emotion. “How would _you_ know? You’ve fired guns and fixed bayonets but _I felt his neck break in my hands_ –”

Something vicious and wild and uncontrollable rears up inside Schofield. He wrenches his head from Blake’s shoulder, turns sharply on him. Blake makes a little noise of surprise as his head slips down on the empty space where Schofield’s used to be.

“Look. At. Me.” Schofield’s voice is like ice. It sounds strange even to himself, almost like it is coming from a mouth that is not his own.

Blake’s shoulders rise. He averts his eyes. 

“EFFING LOOK AT ME, BLAKE!” Schofield shouts. His ribs scream in protest. He ignores it, staring at Blake.

Blake swallows. Drags his eyes slowly to meet Schofield’s.

“I’ve strangled a German to death before. He was young. Younger than eighteen. I put my hands around his neck and squeezed until his bones cracked under my fingers. That was down by the river on the other side of Écoust.” Each word comes out flat and dead, one after the other like a hammer striking an anvil. 

Blake blanches, shrinks back. Schofield continues without pause, eyes drilling into Blake’s. “I’ve crawled over a dozen putrid dead bodies floating on the river at Croisilles Wood.” His voice grows steadily louder and faster, the words pouring out unchecked, a dam bursting at its seams. “I’ve put my hand through the chest of a rotting German. I’ve been buried alive, twice –” 

Something trickles down Schofield’s face, drips off his chin. He swipes at it with his left hand. The back of his fingers comes away wet. 

Blake is staring up at him, eyes wide with horror. “Sco –”

Schofield isn’t done yet. The raging fire in his chest roars higher. “You died in my arms, Blake! I held you and you were bleeding out of your stomach and I felt you _stop breathing_! I’ve seen you die again and again!” Schofield is shouting now, all his rage and pain and grief flooding out in an unstoppable tide. “I’ve put an _effing_ pistol to my own _effing_ head –”

Schofield breaks off abruptly, breaths coming harsh and ragged, ribs burning with agony. He realises what he has just said, what he has just admitted. 

A beat.

“You _what_?” Blake breaks the silence, suddenly deadly still, his eyes wide in horrified denial.

Hot shame rises up in Schofield. His stomach twists. He looks away.

“Will Schofield, you did _what_?” 

“I – never mind.”

“Don’t you dare!” Blake’s voice is rising now. Blake sits up on his knees and grabs Schofield’s head, palms to ears, gripping tight. “Now _you_ look at me, William Schofield! LOOK AT ME!”

Schofield lets Blake turn his head to meet his eyes. Schofield swallows, hard. Blake is crying. 

“Please tell me you didn’t, Sco.” Blake is almost pleading.

Schofield closes his eyes, so he doesn’t have to look at the tears running down Blake’s face. He sighs, a soul-deep exhalation. “I’m sorry, Blake.”

Blake makes a tiny noise of denial. His fingers grip the back of Schofield’s head. “Why? Just…why, Sco?” Blake sounds bewildered, lost.

When Schofield speaks again, his voice is soft, gentle. “You were dead. Again. The pilot – the plane.”

At the mention of the plane, Blake recoils in on himself. Schofield continues. “You were dead, and I had already died once in the rockfall in those tunnels and still woke up the beginning, so I figured I might as well hurry things up a bit.”

There is a brief pause.

“The pilot had a Mauser pistol,” Schofield adds, almost absently.

“Oh my God,” Blake chokes out. 

Blake’s hands are still on each side of Schofield’s head. Schofield watches him struggle to process it all. 

Schofield raises his left hand, gentle fingers wrapping around one of Blake’s wrists, bringing Blake’s hands softly away from his face, one after the other. Schofield keeps hold of them, rubbing his thumb in comforting circles on the back of Blake’s bloodstained, trembling hands. “It’s alright,” he says quietly. “I’m still here.”

Blake’s fingers tighten in his. Blake begins to shake his head, slowly at first, then in increasingly frantic denial. “You can’t have known for sure. You couldn’t have been certain you were going to go back to the beginning. That could have been it.” Blake looks at him, earnest and imploring. “You can’t just –” Blake’s voice nearly breaks. “– end your own life like that. You have a family. Your wife, your daughters. You might have never woken up again. _How could you, Sco?_ ”

The accusation bites like a knife in between Schofield’s ribs. For a moment, his heart wrenches with exquisite pain. His blue tin burns with cold fire, a damning indictment. 

Schofield lets Blake’s hands fall. Sits back against the wall, covers his eyes with his shaking palm. 

Silence. 

There is a rawness to it, an awareness of a line crossed, with no hope of return. 

Blake shifts. “Sco –”

“– Don’t you think I already knew, Blake?” Schofield says at the same time. He hears Blake’s mouth click shut. Schofield curls up over his own knees, hiding his face. “Do you think I don’t already know I’ve done them wrong? My life is not my own. I know that. But I didn’t even think of that when I shot myself. I just did it. You were staring up at the sky and I couldn’t – I couldn’t stand it. So I just did it.”

Blake says nothing. 

“Don’t you think I know I deserve hell for that?” Schofield’s voice is a bare whisper. “Don’t you think I feel their accusing eyes on me? I spend every day trying to escape death, and then I shoot myself, just like that. I don’t deserve –” Schofield breaks off, trembling. “– I don’t deserve to see them again.” 

Blake still says nothing. 

Schofield wants to lie down and just stop breathing.

Then Blake shuffles on his knees up to Schofield’s side, wraps his arms awkwardly around the sling and the bandages and wrappings, and draws Schofield in close to his chest. Schofield buries his face in Blake’s arm and lets himself weep. 

Blake tucks Schofield’s head under his chin and cards careful fingers through Schofield’s hair. Schofield just weeps silently. Exhausted. Done.

Eventually, Schofield’s tears run dry. He stays unmoving in Blake’s hold. Blake doesn’t stop stroking his hair. Schofield closes his eyes. 

“Maybe I’ll be trapped in this hell forever.” Schofield says, voice thick. “Maybe I’m just a dead man walking.”

Blake inhales sharply, his chest expanding against Schofield’s shoulder. “No, you’re not. You’re alive, and you’re here with me.” The fingers tighten in Schofield’s hair. “You’re going to stay alive. I’ll make sure of it.” A beat. Then, softer – “I’m sorry, Sco. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“Hmm.” Schofield murmurs, too exhausted to reply. His limbs feel weighed down, his bones lead-lined. When he tries to blink his eyes open, the shadows on the floor have deepened into a deep, cerulean blue.

Blake shifts his weight to sit next to Schofield again, still holding Schofield to him. “Listen Sco,” he says steadily. “We shouldn’t start moving again until it’s dark. Until then, try to get some sleep, alright? Or just close your eyes. I’m here. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Schofield can’t bring himself to respond. His eyes go unfocused. Schofield’s ear is pressed to Blake’s jacket, and he listens to the soft rumble of Blake breathing, the slow thud of his heartbeat. It calms him, despite the fierce pain in his arm and side. He drifts.

In what seems to be the next moment, someone is tapping him on the shoulder. “Hmmpf?” Schofield blinks, eyes half-lidded. The world is almost pitch black, a mess of confusing murky shapes. Where is he? The ground seems too firm for the frontline trench –

“Sco.” Blake’s voice from somewhere above him in the darkness, soft, reluctant. “It’s dark now. We should go.”

It all comes rushing back, a flood of tree – trench – mud – bunker – rat – tunnel – plane – truck – bridge – sniper –

Écoust.

Schofield can’t breathe. His heart goes suddenly wild against his creaking ribs. 

HISS-SNAP.

The rising crackle of a flare from outside the window.

Light drenches the room, casting harsh, jagged shadows crawling up the walls, writhing over the body of the dead German. Schofield looks up. Blake’s face is thrown into sharp contrast, milky pale with tiredness and anxious anticipation. He looks very young.

Schofield takes in a breath. Sits up out of Blake’s hold painfully. “Right,” he says. “Right.” He staggers to his feet, swaying. Blake surges upright, grabbing Schofield’s left arm to steady him.

Schofield holds on to Blake’s forearm, leaning heavily on him for support. They stumble to the doorway together. “You hold on to me, Blake,” Schofield says softly, a dim echo from the past. 

Blake nods, lips pressed into a determined line. “And you hold on to me, Sco.”

The flare dies. They step together out into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to cut the chapter there (over 5k words already!) or else this would have turned out to be a 10k word chapter...
> 
> I let Sco have his breakdown, and a nap. By all standards I've treated him kindly this chapter. But as for the rest of Écoust - we shall have to see.
> 
> As always, if any of you would like to chat I have a tumblr - handle is @wafflesrisa. Inbox is open!
> 
> Comments would be most welcome - always up for a chat!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Écoust-Saint-Mein.
> 
> Trigger/content warnings mentioned for previous chapters continue to apply to each chapter.

The first step down into the pitch darkness of the lock house stairwell draws a ragged gasp out of Schofield. His broken ribs flex painfully against the rough wrappings around his torso. 

Schofield staggers and tightens his grip on Blake’s arm. He feels Blake brace against his weight, but they nearly stumble against the peeling wallpaper.

“Sorry,” Schofield grinds out, breathless. 

Blake presses closer, taking more of Schofield’s weight. “It’s ok Sco,” he says. “One step at a time. There’s no hurry.” There’s an easy lightness to his voice that is belied only by the strength of his grip on Schofield’s arm. Blake is obviously well aware of the extent of Schofield’s injuries, and is trying desperately to stay strong, to be a comforting presence. 

A corner of Schofield’s mouth lifts, despite the pain. “Thank you,” he says, sincere. 

On the second storey landing, Blake picks up his fallen rifle and reloads it, fumbling with the clip in the darkness. Schofield hears Blake’s foot catch the remains of his shattered helmet with a metallic clink.

“Effing useless helmet,” Blake grouses. In the gloom, his head turns up towards Schofield. “What happened to yours?”

“Same as you. Shot ripped it off my head.”

A short silence. 

Blake lets loose a long, shaky breath. Schofield turns their clasped hands over, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the back of Blake’s hand. He feels Blake relax minutely against his side.

Their progress down the winding staircase is slow, excruciating. Each step sends a shiver of agony in Schofield’s side, and his torn, swollen right elbow swings painfully in its sling. Schofield’s breaths come in short, stuttering gasps. 

At long last, they stagger into the doorway of the lock house. Schofield hunches against the doorframe, trying to catch his breath.

“Should we stop a moment, Sco?” Blake whispers, his form a dark shape against the starless night. 

Schofield just shakes his head with a wordless groan of effort, perspiration running down his forehead. “Miles – yet – to go,” he gasps out.

HISS-SNAP.

A flare crackles up in the distant sky, blindingly bright, throwing dark shadows crawling across the broken ground before them. The jagged edges of the bombed-out ruins cast out long, writhing tongues of darkness, licking at their boots in the doorway. 

In the dying light of the flare, Schofield sees Blake take in the desolate hellscape of Écoust. Blake swallows, gripping the strap of his rifle, half-slinging it off his shoulder. His knuckles are white.

“Ready?” Schofield says, soft, low. The flare begins to fizzle out, sharp shadows fleeing back from where they came, the night darkness pooling at their feet.

Blake nods once, sharply. He jerks his rifle back on his shoulder and reaches out to support Schofield’s weight again.

The flare dies. The street plunges into pitch darkness. 

Schofield heaves himself up, and they stumble into the underworld together. Almost blind in the darkness, they lurch forward, feet catching on shattered stone and brick, straining for the cover of a half-collapsed wall – 

HISS-SNAP.

Another flare! Schofield shoves Blake into the shadowed recess between the wall and a pile of rubble. They crumple up against each other, heads tucked tight. The flare arcs high above their heads, the light whispering past their boot-tips in their tiny well of darkness. 

The light fizzes out. Schofield lets out a shuddering breath against the shoulder of Blake’s jacket. “Up – keep moving!” he hisses. He feels Blake nod against his cheek, and they stumble up and onwards.

Ahead, in the distance, the burning cathedral is a living pyre of golden-orange hellfire. The faint, roaring crackle of the flames echoes in the silence between each of Schofield’s rough, sawing breaths. 

Blake has a death grip on Schofield’s arm, keeping up a low, steady murmur almost into Schofield’s ear. “You’re doing so well Sco, it’s just one foot in front of the other. Watch that loose brick there – well done! Keep to the wall here, slowly now, there’s that overhang right up ahead –”

Schofield sees where Blake is pointing. He grits his teeth and hobbles forward, forcing his leaden feet to move faster, panting with the effort. In his mind, he counts down the dwindling seconds before the next flare, straining to cross the remaining distance.

Twenty-five yards. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.

“Come on, Sco, you can do this, come on, nearly there – shit – _flare!_ –”

HISS-SNAP.

Blake snatches at Schofield’s jacket and _heaves_ – 

– the hungry darkness of the overhang swallows them whole. The harsh glare of the flare erupts around them, every rock and stone and overturned brick on the shattered street outlined in rigid definition.

In the shadows, Schofield doubles over in Blake’s hold and retches acid onto his shoes. He lets out a groan that is almost a sob.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, your ribs, Sco –” Blake whispers guiltily, stroking back the sweat-drenched hair from Schofield’s forehead. 

Schofield nods tightly, eyes clenched shut. He can hardly breathe. He feels Blake readjust his grip on him, bringing an arm around Schofield’s shoulders and bracing Schofield’s weight against his chest. 

“Must we go past the church?” Blake asks. “It’ll be harder to find cover with that fire.” 

It is a long moment before Schofield can get the words out. “Yes. The church, the central square, then left, under the archways – there’s a basement. A baby.” Schofield gasps in another breath. “Needs – needs the milk in my canteen.”

Behind him, Blake is silent for a moment. The flare begins to fade, the shadows deepening.

Schofield closes his eyes, so weary. “Blake, we _have_ to –”

“– Of course we have to, Sco. There’s a baby that needs us.” Blake’s voice is suddenly resolute, determined. “We’ve got to go there.” 

Schofield relaxes against Blake. His blue tin warms against his chest, flickering with his heartbeat. “Yes,” he says simply. “We do.”

Darkness falls like a heavy curtain. Wordlessly, they stumble on toward the burning wreck of the cathedral, a limping half-lope. 

The low arches of the covered colonnade loom into sight on the edges of the central square, a row of downturned mouths, ominous and black against the smoke and crimson flames.

Nearly there. Nearly there. Sweat drips into Schofield’s eyes, stinging. 

They slip under the darkness of the colonnade. Cold shadows slither down the back of Schofield’s neck, but the heat of the fire throbs against his face, warm against his feverish skin. In the reddish glow of the flames, he turns his head to look back at Blake.

Blake is staring straight ahead, eyes squinting into the distance.

 _What?_ Schofield follows his gaze, half-dazed. 

In the heavy smoke beyond the right side of the church, a dim outline of a figure drifts forward in the haze – 

“German!” Schofield snaps out, grabbing Blake’s collar. Schofield curses vehemently under his breath – he had forgotten – _how_ could he have forgotten – 

Blake makes a small noise of surprise as Schofield wrenches them towards a pillar, sending them staggering behind cover. 

“Shh!” Schofield hisses, palm over Blake’s mouth, hushing him. “Stay quiet!” Blake stares across at him, round eyes wide at something he sees in Schofield’s face. He looks very young, younger than his years.

Memory rushes up and wraps vicelike around Schofield’s throat. _Engländer!_ Schofield snatches his hand away, suddenly shaking – 

“Hallo? Wer ist da?”

Blake freezes in Schofield’s grip. Schofield goes very still, every muscle tense and trembling. 

The German’s footsteps crunch across the cobblestone square, audible despite the roar of the flames. Closer. Closer.

“Weber, bist du das?” 

Under Schofield’s hands, Blake has stopped breathing. Schofield is pressed close, but he is desperately aware that the slim shadow cast by the pillar is not sufficient for the both of them. His injured arm burns with pressure, trapped between them.

The footsteps clack closer still, then stop.

Silence. 

“Weber?” On the other side of the pillar.

Blake makes an abortive movement towards the strap of his rifle. Schofield’s hand darts forward like lightning and closes on Blake’s wrist. Schofield shakes his head slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. Blake’s eyes are wild, terrified. 

The German is muttering under his breath, almost right next to them. “Mein Gott, ich seh schon gespenster...” 

The gleam of the German’s bayonet glints into view around the pillar, glowing the colour of blood in the firelight, mere inches from Blake’s ear. The muzzle of the rifle slides forward as the German takes another step – 

Blake shoves Schofield away from him, into the light, almost face to face with the German. The German’s eyes widen in shock, finger tightening on the trigger of his rifle. “Scheisse!”

Schofield looks death in the face – 

– Blake whirls out from behind the pillar. In one sharp movement, he flicks his rifle off his shoulder, bats away the bayonet with his rifle barrel and fires point blank into the German’s stomach.

CRACK.

The shot is deafening, reverberating across the walls of the square. Schofield’s ears ring.

The German stumbles back, totters on his feet. For a moment, his eyes lock with Blake’s. Then he folds soundlessly onto the ground. His rifle clatters on the cobblestones.

Blake whips around, runs to Schofield. “Sco! Are you hurt? Are you alright?” Blake runs shaking fingers over Schofield’s sling, his bandaged ribs. Finding no new injuries, Blake lets out a low sound of relief. He steps forward and clasps the back of Schofield’s neck, as if convincing himself that Schofield is still there in front of him, whole. 

Schofield is half-stunned, adrenaline still roaring in his ears. “I’m – I’m okay. I think.” The words come out almost as a croak. 

Blake shivers, glancing back at the German lying in a slowly spreading pool of blood. 

Schofield sees the look on Blake’s face, and reaches out to clasp his shoulder. “You did well, Blake,” Schofield says quietly. 

Blake nods, a sharp jerk of his head. He closes the gap between them and takes hold of Schofield’s shoulders and uninjured arm again. “Which way?” Blake’s voice is rough, choked. 

Schofield doesn’t comment on it. “Around that corner – and then left – ”

CRACK.

A bullet whistles past Schofield’s ear. He flinches, staggering back against Blake.

“ENGLÄNDER!” Behind them, a thunder of footsteps.

Blake braces against Schofield, shoving him back on his feet. Schofield’s ribs scream in protest.

They run.

It is a grating, broken, limping run, Blake’s hands fisted in the sleeve and shoulder of Schofield’s wool jacket, hauling Schofield along by sheer effort. Schofield’s feet drag painful furrows in gravel and broken stone, scraping against the ground in a frantic, lopsided dash. 

CRACK.

The bullet slices through a strap in Schofield’s webbing, tearing through his jacket and passing a hairsbreadth away from skin. Schofield stumbles from the impact, almost going down on one knee.

Schofield’s canteen tumbles out of his pack, rolling across the cobblestones – 

“SCO!” Blake screams, panicking, hand fumbling for the rip in Schofield’s side – 

“I’m fine, I’m fine – the milk –” Schofield gasps out, scrabbling frantically in the darkness, bandaged fingertips slipping in the mud – 

– his fingers close around the cold metal of his canteen, as Blake’s hand clenches into the back of his collar and heaves upwards –

CRACK.

A bullet strikes the stone where Schofield’s hand was a split second before, the ricochet snapping past their stumbling legs – 

– the sound of many booted feet slapping the cobblestones behind them, growing closer and closer – 

– “Come _on_ , Sco!” Blake shouts, dragging Schofield bodily around the corner – 

There! The wooden basement grating. “Blake – ” Schofield points with a finger, his hand trembling around his canteen. Darkness is creeping into the edges of his vision. His ribs convulse in breathless agony.

They lurch up to the wall. Blake lets go of Schofield and drives his foot forcefully into the grating, the studs in his boots cracking against the wooden slats. Suddenly bereft of support, Schofield crumples into a limp heap against the wall, chest heaving, blinking against the blackness in his eyes.

The grating flips inwards. Blake rolls through. Schofield falls forward on his hands and knees, weakly straining towards the edge of the wooden slats –

Blake’s hand erupts from within the basement, knuckling in the material of Schofield’s jacket. With an almighty tug, Blake pulls Schofield through the grating. Schofield tumbles downwards like a ragdoll, crashing into Blake and bringing them both down. 

Schofield’s head strikes the cellar floor with a _snap_. Stars explode in his vision. An involuntary whimper bubbles past his lips, a high-pitched whine of distress –

– Blake crawls next to Schofield and slaps a hand over his mouth, stifling the sound.

Silence, except for their ragged breathing.

Drumming footsteps clatter past on the street. Weak light filters down through the grating, shuttering over them as they curl up against each other.

Silence. A moment passes. Then another.

Schofield wrenches Blake’s hand away from his mouth and heaves in a shuddering breath. He stares up at the ceiling, trying and failing to get his eyes to focus. Dark splotches float across his vision. His ribs and elbow are in indescribable agony.

A hand, cupping his face. Another on his shoulder.

“Sco?” Blake’s voice, soft, scared. “Can you hear me?”

Schofield opens his mouth and tries to respond, but all that comes out is a ghastly rattling noise. It scares him. He flinches as he lies there, feet scraping against the floor. 

The hand on Schofield’s shoulder shifts to his hair. “Shh, Sco.” Blake’s voice is very close. “Just breathe.”

Schofield tries. He drags in one juddering breath after the other, loud and grating in the flickering darkness. With every gasp, the back of his ribs push falteringly against the hard floor.

“Good, well done, Sco.” There is a cold undercurrent of fear in Blake’s tone. “Keep breathing – just –” Blake’s voice breaks for a moment. “Just keep breathing.”

Schofield’s eyes are half-lidded, slowly drifting shut. His grip on the canteen slackens. It rolls out of his left hand with a soft clatter.

The hand in his hair suddenly stops, grips tight against his skull. “Sco. Sco? Stay awake.”

Everything is spinning slowly into a dark whirpool, a blurring mess of shapes and sounds. Schofield’s eyes close. His chest stutters, barely rises.

SLAP – a stinging pain in Schofield’s cheek. His eyes flicker dazedly open. 

“Stop that! You will _not_ , Sco!” Blake’s face swims blearily into view above Schofield. Blake is crying, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping down onto Schofield’s face. “You _effing_ stay awake, Sco. You can’t leave me behind. I can’t do this alone.” 

Blake bows his head over Schofield’s chest, begging. “ _Please Sco._ ”

Schofield desperately wants to raise his left hand to rest on Blake’s head, to calm him, to reassure. But Schofield’s bones are made of lead. His fingers flicker uselessly against the side of Blake’s jacket.

A soft noise from deeper within the basement, somewhere above and behind Schofield’s head.

Blake snaps his head up in alarm. He eases away from Schofield and reaches for his rifle, moving up and out of view, crouched low. Schofield tries to catch Blake’s sleeve, but his stiff fingers miss and grasp air. 

Muffled voices sound out, rising in tension. A smattering of French – a young woman, pleading. Blake’s voice, louder. “English – not German – _English_!”

“Ou sont les autres?”

“I don’t understand, I can’t speak French –”

“Autres? You?”

“Aut-tres? Others? No, just me and – shit – Sco!” Blake’s voice rises. The sound of his steps clattering back towards Schofield. 

Schofield just keeps staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe. Blake comes back into view, kneeling beside him again, reaching out to hold Schofield’s head. Schofield manages to grind out a word, strangled. “Blake.” 

The pressure of the floor on Schofield’s ribs is making it hard for him to draw a full breath. He blinks dark spots out of his vision. He feels like he is slowly suffocating. 

Blake looks up, past Schofield. “He’s very hurt. Can you help me with him?”

There is a pause, as soft footsteps gingerly approach. A quiet gasp. “ _Mon Dieu._ ” A rustle of cloth, a hesitant touch on his forehead.

Blake swallows. “Help me get him up.”

The woman comes around to Schofield’s other side. She is as young as Schofield remembers, rail thin with a haunted, grieving look in her eyes. As much pain as he is in, Schofield is oddly comforted to see her again, alive. 

Blake grunts, sliding his arm under Schofield’s shoulders. “Lift, on three. One, two three –”

The world erupts in white flame. All sound and sight is swallowed by one endless wave of pain.

_Breathe._

Suddenly, Schofield can breathe again. The relentless pressure of the hard ground is no longer against his back, and he sucks in one sweet breath after the other, greedily, ribs creaking but finally expanding. 

The world slowly swims back into view. Schofield’s is sitting in hard-backed chair, the glow of the fire deliciously warm on his face. Someone’s hands are gentle on his shoulders, supporting him gently against the back of the chair. 

For a long, disorienting moment, Schofield thinks he is in Cookham, the embers of the hearth simmering down after a long day, his wife’s gentle touch on his shoulders – where are the children? They should be coming in to supper – Schofield lifts his weary head, tilting his ear for the sound of little feet running into the kitchen. 

“Stay still Sco, your ribs need wrapping again.” Blake.

Schofield jars back into reality with a shudder so violent, his teeth clack together. He groans, eyes blinking fully open. His blue tin is cold in his chest pocket.

“Stop moving!” Blake says sharply. He crouches in front of Schofield, the end of a long bandage between his teeth. He leans forward and begins winding the strips around Schofield’s torso, over the loosening bandages already there. The young woman keeps holding Schofield’s shoulders, tilting him gently forward so Blake can reach around. 

The tightened wrappings give Schofield’s ribs some much-needed support. The last of the dark spots clear out of Schofield’s vision. Schofield catches Blake’s hand as he finishes tying the last knot. “Thank you, Blake,” he says quietly. 

Blake looks immensely relieved. He sits back on his heels and runs a hand down his face. Tipping sideways, he bumps his shoulder against Schofield’s knee. “Don’t scare me like that again, Sco,” Blake says, muffled into his hand. 

The young woman moves around the chair to face Schofield. He smiles up at her, pained but sincere. “Merci,” he says. She doesn’t smile back, but looks at his mud-stained clothes and steps towards the fire, adding a few more pieces of driftwood to the blaze. “Merci,” he repeats, softly. She nods, shoulders slowly beginning to loosen.

Blake scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand, face turned away. He sniffles. Schofield places a gentle hand on Blake’s shoulder, reassuring. Blake relaxes into his touch.

There’s a brief moment of silence. The young woman shifts awkwardly, frail hands coming up to hold her elbows, hugging herself.

Blake looks up at the sound. “What your name, miss?” he asks. The young woman looks at him blankly. Blake sits up, cross-legged. “I’m Blake.” He points to himself, face open, friendly. “He’s Schofield – Sco.” He jabs a thumb up past his shoulder at Schofield, rocking to one side with the movement. “You?” Blake points up at the young woman. 

A glimmer of understanding crosses the young woman’s face. She unwinds her fingers from her sleeves. “Lauri,” she says softly. “Je m’appelle Lauri.” A small frown of concentration. “Bl-ake.” she says, drawing out the vowel. “Scoh.” Her eyes flick from Blake to Schofield, gauging their reactions.

Blake nods eagerly. “Yes. Lauri, is it? Thank you for your help, Lauri.” He beams up at her. It is impossible to doubt his sincerity.

She tentatively smiles back, a little shy. Schofield hides a small smile. He’s been on the receiving end of Blake’s enthusiastic introductions before. It is a little bit like being blinded by the sun. 

Lauri’s gaze comes to rest on Schofield again. Although warmed by the fire, Schofield is still shivering, low trembles racking his body as he sits. She bites her lip, frowning, and looks back at Blake. “Il n'a pas l'air bien. Puis-je lui obtenir quelque chose? Un peu d'eau? Ou une couverture?” ” 

Blake shakes his head. “I don’t speak any French, I’m sorry. I never could pay attention at my lessons. Sco? Do you understand?” He twists around to look up at Schofield. 

Schofield nods tiredly. “She’s offering to help however she can. Water. Or a blanket.”

Lauri nods. She crosses the room, picks up a thin, ratty blanket and shakes it out. She comes back closer to the fire and makes to drape it over Schofield. 

Schofield stops her, hand on her sleeve. He shakes his head. “Thank you, but there’s no need. We’ll be on our way soon.”

Lauri seems to understand the gist of what Schofield is saying, that he is rejecting the blanket. A determined gleam rises in her gaze. “Monsieur Scoh,” she says, soft, insistent.

A faint snuffling noise in the corner, from the chest of drawers.

Lauri looks up, softening. She spreads out the blanket over Schofield with a flick of her wrists, and treads over to the open chest of drawers. “Ma petite,” she says softly, cooing at the bundle in her arms.

A bolt of lightning goes through Schofield. Where is his canteen? It had been in his hand. Where is it? He begins to panic, fingers moving under the blanket, searching.

Blake feels Schofield’s leg tense against his shoulder. He snaps his head up. “Oh! The milk!” he says. He rolls to his feet and scrambles out the doorway, into the darkness of the outer cellar.

Lauri watches him go, confused. The baby fusses, and she hushes it, bouncing the bundle gently in her arms. Schofield gazes steadily at the dark mouth of the doorway, heart thudding against his ribs.

Blake stumbles back into the room, holding out the canteen. “Found it!” he says, relieved, happy. “You dropped it earlier, Sco, when you – ” he breaks off, face closing. “Anyway,” he says, much quieter, “Here you go. Milk.” He holds the canteen out to Lauri.

Lauri’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Quoi?”

Schofield speaks then, a single word, in French. “Lait.” He can’t take his eyes off the baby. 

Lauri’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Lait?” she repeats. She steps towards Schofield, the baby squirming in her arms. Hope is dawning on her face as she waits for his confirmation.

Schofield nods. “Oui. Lait. For the baby.” He takes out his left arm from behind the blanket and reaches up towards the bundle in her arms, hand shaking. The baby latches on to his fingers with a surprising strength, snuffling quietly.

Lauri looks from the baby to Schofield. She seems to see something in his face. With a decisive movement, she plops the baby into his lap. “La tenir,” she instructs. 

But Schofield has already shifted his arm to circle around the baby, an instinctive, practised movement. The baby gurgles, looking up at him with round, inquisitive eyes. A lump forms in Schofield’s throat.

Lauri crosses to Blake and takes the canteen from him, unscrewing the cap and raising it to her nose. “Mon Dieu,” she says softly, closing her eyes. Pure relief washes over her face.

Blake comes over to Schofield and crouches down by the arm of the chair. “Hello there,” he says to the baby, grinning. “Aren’t you a pretty one.” The baby grabs Schofield’s finger again, looks wide-eyed at Blake. Blake reaches forward and pokes at the baby’s chubby cheek. The baby blinks, shocked, face starting to screw up in distress.

Blake waves his hands, alarmed. “Oh no no no, I’m sorry darling I didn’t mean – ” Panicking, he hides behind the arm of the chair, and pops back out again. “Peekaboo!” 

The baby sniffles louder, fussing. “Shit – ” Blake mutters. He stops himself short. “I mean – ” He clacks his mouth shut. The baby lets out a short wail – 

“They went to sea in a Sieve, they did.” Schofield’s voice is measured, gentle. “In a Sieve they went to sea.” 

The baby goes quiet. Looks up at Schofield, round eyes wide.

“In spite of all their friends could say; on a winter’s morn, on a stormy day, in a Sieve they went to sea.” Schofield’s voice is quiet and easy over the sound of the crackling fire.

Lauri walks soundlessly to stand by the hearth. She looks at the baby and Schofield, and there is an aching softness in her features.

“Far and few, far and few, are the lands where the Jumblies live; their heads are green, and their hands are blue, and they went to sea in a Sieve.” 

The baby settles against Schofield’s chest, chewing on Schofield’s finger. The baby’s head is a feather-light weight against the blue tin in his chest pocket.

Schofield’s eyes grow hot. A tear rolls down his face.

Quiet.

Lauri breaks the silence. “Avez-vous des enfants? Children - you?” Schofield can’t bear to answer. He doesn’t take his eyes off the baby.

Blake shifts. “Yes, he does.” Schofield looks at him sharply. Blake doesn’t notice, continues on. “Two children. Girls.”

Lauri smiles, sadly. “C'est une fille,” she says, leaning over to gently cup the baby’s head. 

Schofield swallows, looking back down at the baby. “I know,” he says thickly. “I know.” The baby is a warm weight in his lap. Schofield curls over the baby, hiding his face. 

Next to the arm of the chair, Blake straightens suddenly. “Oh!” he says, eagerly. “We’ve been given provisions – we have food –” He gets up. Schofield hears Blake rummaging in his webbing, his pack. 

“Here you go, take them. Take it, Lauri.” Blake says, almost cheerful. “For you.” 

Lauri hasn’t moved from beside the chair, where Schofield is huddled over the baby. She lays a hand on Schofield’s arm, quiet, compassionate, understanding. 

Blake reads the mood, peters off. “Sco?” he says, tentative. “Are you ok?”

Schofield doesn’t look up. “Take the food in my pack too, Blake. All of it,” he says roughly. He hears Blake step outside to the outer cellar, to find Schofield’s pack. A few moments later, Blake footsteps return, and Lauri moves away with a rustle of cloth to accept the food. “Merci,” she says, sincere.

The baby wriggles against Schofield’s chest, the top of her dewy head brushing against his cheek. There’s a longing ache in Schofield chest. He closes his eyes and breathes through the pain, wrestling down the burning emotion until it simmers quietly under his skin. He breathes out, opens his eyes.

Blake is looking at him, the barest hint of guilt in his expression. “Sco?”

“I’m alright,” Schofield says, eyes empty. Blake bites his lip, but says nothing.

Schofield looks at Lauri. “We should be going soon.” Lauri seems to understand. She comes forward and scoops up the baby from Schofield’s lap. The baby makes a little noise of protest, grabbing at Schofield’s finger as Lauri moves away. The baby immediately starts fussing again.

Schofield forces himself to look away, clenching his fingers into his palm. “Blake, help me get up. We should go.” There’s harshness to his voice that is foreign to him. 

Blake looks from the baby in Lauri’s arms to Schofield, and soft empathy flashes across his face. He comes up to Schofield’s side, picking up the blanket and putting it to one side. The cold draught from the fire washes over Schofield, and he shivers. Blake slides an arm carefully around his shoulders. “Ready, Sco?” He says in a low undertone.

Schofield nods, teeth gritted. Blake heaves him up – stars explode in Schofield’s eyes – and then he is on his feet, trembling even with Blake’s support. Blake’s head turns towards the dark doorway. “Your pack – ”

“Leave it,” Schofield says, breathing heavy. “I don’t think I could take it. Just give me my rifle.” Blake lets go of him gingerly and disappears through the doorway. Schofield sways on the spot, nearly topples over. A thin hand catches his uninjured elbow. Lauri, with the baby propped up on her hip. “Merci,” he says.

She looks up at him, a worried crease in her brow. “Où allez-vous?” she asks. 

“Croisilles Wood.”

“Croisilles Wood – la rivière.” She nods in the direction of the river. 

“I know. Thank you,” Schofield says. A thought suddenly comes to him. “Blake?” he calls weakly. 

Blake appears at the doorway in an instant, Schofield’s rifle in his hand. “Yes?” he says quickly, looking Schofield over. 

“I’m alright,” Schofield reassures him. “I just remembered the river. I don’t plan on going into it – not this time – but you should give me the orders for Colonel Mackenzie. I’ll keep it in my tin, just in case.”

Blake goes a little pale at the mention of Schofield going into the river. “Right,” Blake mutters, rummaging for the letter in his jacket. Schofield struggles to open his blue tin one-handed. Blake makes an abortive movement as if to take the tin from Schofield, but checks himself. 

Schofield finally manages to crack the lid of the tin open. He does not look inside as Blake carefully slides the letter into the tin. Schofield tucks the tin into his pocket, buttons it. Checks the button. Checks it again. Checks – 

“Oh for God’s sake,” Blake says, exasperated but gentle. He flicks Schofield’s hand away and tugs at the flap over Schofield’s pocket, patting it firmly. “It’s secure. Won’t fall out. I’ve checked it for you.” 

Schofield swallows, nods. Takes his rifle gingerly from Blake and slings it over his left shoulder. 

They look at Lauri. She gazes back. Schofield can’t seem to find the right words.

“Adieu,” she says simply.

“Goodbye,” Blake says. Schofield gives her a nod, and the baby in her arms wriggles around, staring at him. 

Blake pushes at Schofield’s shoulders. Schofield rips his eyes from the baby’s.

They stumble up the stairs painfully, away from the glow of the fire and towards the night chill. They reach the street.

Schofield stops dead. Blake looks up and freezes on the spot.

The whole street is bathed in moonlight, cool on the cobblestones and shattered rubble, clean and silver and stunning. Low on the horizon, the full moon has risen, streetlamp-bright.

Blake curses once, vehemently, under his breath. Schofield is silent, but he wholeheartedly agrees. Blake shakes his head. “There goes our effing cover. Should we wait for the moon to set?”

Schofield leans forward with difficulty, peering up and down the street. Deserted. His lips press down into a thin line, and he shakes his head. “We’ve got no time. Keep to the alleyways, head straight for the river. Let’s go.”

Blake eases Schofield out onto the street with a grunt of effort, and their halting, painful progress begins anew. They hug the side of the street as much as possible, feet tripping and stumbling over doorsteps and drainage ditches. Schofield is all too aware of the moonlight reflecting off their rifle-tips and the metal buckles in their jackets. Schofield expects a shout to ring out in German at any moment.

“Come on, Sco. Just to the next street. Come on.” Blake has started his low murmur of encouragement again, almost in Schofield’s ear. He presses close under Schofield’s arm, taking on as much of Schofield’s weight as possible. Schofield’s left hand is grasped tight on Blake’s opposite shoulder, knuckles white against the throbbing, ceaseless pain in his right arm and side. Schofield fixes his eyes, wolf-like, at the pool of shadowed blackness at the end of the long street, sweat running down his temples and into his soaked collar.

HISS-SNAP.

A flare! No cover – no time. Blake curses and shoves Schofield against a closed doorway, a scant six inches of brick cover. Blake holds Schofield tight and shields him with his own body, tucking Schofield’s head against his shoulder. 

Schofield’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?” he hisses. “You’ve got no cover!” His weakened hands grab at Blake’s jacket, trying uselessly to pull Blake next to him into the tiny doorway.

Blake shakes his head against Schofield’s, eyes screwed tight. “Not enough room,” he says into Schofield’s shoulder. “Hush.” Schofield can feel Blake’s heart pounding, terrified.

The flare burns. It burns, and burns, each second excruciatingly long. Blake is hardly breathing. They wait for the inevitable gunshot.

The harsh yellow light fades slowly into soft silver. Schofield’s eyes track the dying arc of the flare. “Blake,” he says. 

Blake releases a breath into Schofield’s shoulder, almost a sob. Schofield presses the side of his face into Blake’s hair. “Thank you, my friend,” he says with his whole heart. Blake nods against his cheek.

Then Blake ducks under Schofield’s arm again and they stagger on, two grey figures trailing across a long silver strip of parchment. 

They reach a crossroads, one side of the junction thrown in deep shadow by the craggy remains of the ruins opposite. Schofield pauses, willing his pain-fogged mind to recall the route. “This way, I think.” He jerks his head towards the right, a wide alleyway. 

They slip into the shadows of the alley, the sound of their uneven gait unnaturally loud in the stillness. Ahead, the path narrows, and the broken remains of a large building looms out of the darkness. Schofield frowns. It looks familiar – 

Memory rushes forth. Schofield stops in his tracks. Blake looks sharply at him. “What is it, Sco?”

Schofield’s eyes are wide, the memory ghastly clear. The feeling of bones cracking under his fingers –

“Sco!” Blake gives him a tiny shake. 

Schofield wrenches himself back into the present. “That schoolhouse,” he says, voice breaking. “I killed the German there.” Blake’s grip on Schofield tightens. Schofield swallows. “That was later, when it was nearly morning. I don’t know if they’re in there right now. We’ll have to be quiet.”

Blake nods. “Are you alright?” he asks. 

Schofield’s eyes are glazed over. “…Yes,” he says. Blake presses closer to Schofield’s side.

They creep up to the narrow strip of cobblestones running alongside the schoolhouse. Schofield tries desperately to control his breathing, his gasping for air. His ribs tremble. 

They pass by doorway after doorway. 

CRASH.

The sound of a door slamming open. Blake reaches convulsively for his rifle. 

Schofield snaps out his hand, catching the barrel of Blake’s rifle. The alleyway is still. The sound had come from the other side of the schoolhouse building.

“Bäumer, das sieht gut aus.” The words echo through the schoolhouse and into the alleyway. “Gib mir den brandy.”

Blake is unmoving, rigid with tension. Schofield taps him on the shoulder, jerks his head forward. Let’s go, he mouths. Blake nods roughly. They move down the alley, one step after another, Blake flinching at the sounds of bottles clinking in the schoolhouse.

Schofield drags himself forward, until they turn the corner into a little pocket of darkness. There, he half-crumples against Blake. 

“Sco?” Blake’s soft cry of alarm. 

Schofield totters, nearly falls. “Sorry,” he mumbles. He laughs wetly. “I’m just – ” Schofield breathes out shakily. “I’m just so glad I didn’t have to kill him again. Thank God.”

Blake is silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he says, very quietly. He braces against Schofield’s weight, waits until Schofield finds his feet again. 

They struggle on together. 

Through a narrow alleyway, almost too tight for them to pass, shoulders scraping against brick. Down a flight of stone steps, each step sending stars across Schofield’s vision. Ahead, a knife-straight street. The bridge over the river, far in the distance.

The bridge looks very far away. Schofield falters, blinking sweat out of his eyes. He leans against Blake, panting.

Blake redoubles his grip on Schofield. “Nearly there, Sco,” he says, determined. “We’ll make it. Now left foot – then right –”

In the never-ending minutes it takes for them to stagger down the long, straight street, two more flares fire. Each time, Blake manhandles Schofield into a doorway, using his own body as a shield. Each time, they wait for a bullet that never comes.

They reach the bridge. The moon is high in the night sky. On the horizon, dark clouds are rapidly gathering, the distant sound of thunder rolling towards them. A storm is brewing.

Blake pauses as they come up to the low stone barrier on the side of the bridge. “Where next?” he whispers.

Schofield shakes his head, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “I don’t know. We’ve got to follow the river. Last time, I had to jump off this bridge.”

Blake gives him a brief, horrified glance. “Okay, let’s not do that this time, hmm, Sco?” Blake says, trying for humour. “Would play havoc on those ribs.” He peers over the edge, looks down at the long drop past the high stone wall of the embankment. “Let’s get down there and see if there’s anything. We’re too exposed up here.” 

Schofield nods tightly. Without a word, they limp over the crest of the bridge. The way down is rough and steep, and Schofield’s feet slip more than once. Blake catches him, steady at his side.

On the opposite bank a flight of steps lead down through the tall stone embankment to a tiny jetty, almost swallowed up in the shadow of the bridge. Schofield narrows his eyes in the darkness. “Blake,” he says.

“What is it?”

“I think that’s a rowboat – look.” 

Blake follows his gaze. They stumble towards the outline of the rickety boat, bobbing on the water. The sound of the river roars against their ears as it funnels past the jetty and under the bridge, white foam whirling madly in the rapid current.

The boat is small, made for one. Blake looks at it for a long moment. He carefully lets go of Schofield, and shoulders off his pack and webbing. Schofield understands. They have a better chance of making it with as little equipment weighing down the boat as possible. 

The boat is tied to an iron loop on the side of the jetty with a length of thick, mangy rope. The knot has been tied so tightly and for so long that it is encrusted black with dirt and mold. “We’d better cut it,” Schofield says, reaching out and tapping the bayonet sheathed on Blake’s hip. Blake whips out the bayonet, crouches and begins sawing away.

Schofield braces against the thin post of the jetty for support, and cranes his head with effort to look at the sky. The dark clouds have drifted over the moon, blocking its silvery light. Over the river drifts the rumbling of an incoming storm front. A chill wind sweeps low over the water. 

“Hurry, Blake,” Schofield says. There’s no sound from the top of the bridge, from Écoust. It is too quiet. The hair on the back of Schofield’s neck rises up. 

“I’m trying! Why is this rope so damn thick –”

HISS-SNAP.

Harsh yellow light drenches them. Schofield ducks his head, half-blinded by the flare, arcing up almost directly above them. Blake swears audibly next to Schofield. The noise of the blade sawing against the fibres becomes frantic, rushed.

“Shau da!” German voices sound out above them. “Unter der Brücke!” The thudding of feet approaching the bridge.

“Hurry!” Schofield hisses, eyes screwed shut against the light. 

“I know, I know! – ”

CRACK.

The shot lances past Schofield and ricochets off the iron loop with a resounding ring. 

Blake flinches backwards – tumbles into Schofield with his full weight – Schofield cries out in pain, loses his footing off the side of the jetty – 

SPLASH.

Schofield is swallowed alive by the river, a seething morass of boiling pitch. The water closes over his head and drags him under.

Schofield screams, bubbles erupting from his mouth. He flails his one uninjured arm uselessly in the darkness. The current attacks Schofield with a thousand ice-cold needles, pummelling against his broken ribs. It rips the rifle from his shoulder and his sling off his arm, his torn elbow thrashing about in the water – 

– the river punches Schofield back up into the surface, still screaming. 

“SCO!” Blake’s answering scream, ripped away by the sound of the rushing rapids.

The bridge is already some ways away, the current racing fast and deadly. Schofield gasps a ragged half-breath. He dimly sees a figure dive off the edge of the jetty. 

The river plunges him down again, into a pitch-black hell. Branches and detritus tear into him, demons with a dozen fingers grabbing his hair and jabbing into exposed skin.

Something slams into Schofield, wrapping around him. He fights it underwater, flinging his head back in sheer terror –

– Schofield breaks the surface with an involuntary gasp, eyes wild, choking as his ribs convulse against his lungs. He pushes at the _thing_ holding him – 

“SCO! IT’S ME!” Blake’s voice, shouting, swamped by the water. “STOP FIGHTING! I’VE GOT YOU!”

Schofield sobs in blind relief. He throws his left arm around Blake’s neck, clinging to him. Schofield struggles to breathe, trapped in a dark world of pain and rushing water.

Blake fights to keep them both afloat, Schofield a limp weight dragging them both down. The rapids grow faster. In the total darkness it is almost impossible to discern water from riverbank from starless night. 

Something looms out of the white-tipped surf, blacking out half the sky – 

A boulder! The current wrenches them out of its path at the last instant. Schofield gasps and sputters, desperately trying to get air, to stay alive. Blake kicks against the water, straining to catch sight of the riverbank.

More boulders, whispering slabs of death bearing down over them. One catches the edge of Blake’s sleeve and rips it up to his elbow. Schofield hears Blake hiss sharply in pain.

Ahead, a thunderous, deafening roar approaching.

Schofield remembers. Every joint in his body locks up in involuntary horror. Blake heaves him up, fighting Schofield’s sudden dead weight – 

Under their kicking feet, the water disappears into thin air. 

They fall.

Schofield braces himself – 

SLAP-CRACK – 

Schofield’s ribs snap clean through on impact. 

Schofield opens his mouth in a silent scream as the force of a thousand tons of water crashes down on him. Water rushes into his mouth and down his throat as he shrieks in the darkness – 

A hand closes on the back of his collar – 

Schofield’s head breaks the surface. 

“I’ve got you! I’ve got you!” Blake, panicking, supporting Schofield from behind, tilting his head up to open his airway. “Breathe, Sco! Goddammit, BREATHE!”

Schofield convulses against Blake and vomits out river water and acid. His flailing legs kick against floating wood. Blake has found a branch, and has propped Schofield up between it and his own body, like an otter with its child.

Schofield’s lungs are on fire. His first breath is pure agony. There’s an odd strangled whistle of air with each exhale, and the pain radiates into his back. Water slips past his ears, flowing around his face as he gasps, staring up at the sky.

The river slows. They drift on eddying currents past the dim outline of trees, silhouetted against the night. 

Trailing down Schofield’s face, a feather-light touch of something tiny and white, floating on the water. It spins away from them on the current. Another floats by, then another. Behind Schofield, Blake makes a choked noise of recognition. 

Cherry blossoms.

The river sweeps Blake and Schofield through the ghostly blanket, stunningly white. The blossoms catch in Schofield’s hair, in the folds of his jacket, in between his slack fingers. 

The current dwindles. Blake shifts under Schofield’s shoulders, changing his grip to under Schofield’s arms. “Keep breathing, Sco. I think can see the bank.” 

Schofield nods once, water slipping over his chin. Each stuttered breath whistles between his parted lips. He lets himself be drawn through the water. 

The gentle trickling of water over a dam. Schofield hears Blake make a whimpering noise of disgust. And then Schofield’s shoulders are brushing past floating lumps in the water. 

The smell hits, a putrid, swollen stink. Bodies. Bobbing in the water, against the fallen tree lying across the width of the river. 

Schofield gags, tries to lift his head further out of the water, to no avail. He shudders, retches as the quivering corpses brush past his face.

At long last, Schofield feels dirt scrape under his shoulders. Blake’s feet scrabble loudly in the shallows behind him, and the hands under his arms heave – 

Schofield tips his head back and releases a choked, breathless howl as his back scrapes across the grass bank and up to flat ground.

Blake releases Schofield, legs folding as he crashes down the grass. Schofield’s head thuds back limply, half in Blake’s lap. Schofield’s chest is growing bizarrely tight, each breath a wheezing struggle. 

They lie there in silence for a moment. The only sound is their ragged breathing and the rustle of leaves overhead. It is still pitch dark.

Croisilles Wood.

Under Schofield’s shoulders, Blake shifts. Schofield hears a wet laugh bubble out of Blake’s chest. “We made it, Sco,” Blake says, voice wobbly with disbelief. “We made it.”

Schofield doesn’t answer. He is beginning to feel very lightheaded, even though he is lying down. He frowns, tries harder to breathe. A sharp pain blooms in his right side, piercing and sudden. Schofield bites off a choked scream.

Blake tenses under Schofield’s shoulders. “Sco?” An edge of worry enters his voice. “I can’t see shit – let me get a light.” The sound of Blake rifling through his jacket pockets. “Come on, blasted thing – ” Blake mutters. The click of a switch. “Aha!”

Flickering torchlight blooms over them, a tiny pool of golden light.

Blake laughs, shaky with leftover adrenaline. “Surprised it still works, honestly – soaked through – ” He stutters to a stop. “Sco? Oh my God.” Horror bleeds into his voice.

Blake scrambles out from under Schofield, laying Schofield’s head carefully on the ground. Schofield’s head lolls to the side. He blinks, face pressed into the wet grass. Blake comes into view, leaning close, flashlight gripped tight in his hand, face tight with fear. “Sco? You’ve gone blue. Are you – can you – ”

Schofield opens his mouth, tries to answer. Something catches in deep his lungs. His eyes widen. Liquid rushes up to the back of his throat – he hacks deep, shuddering coughs – 

– red spatters on the grass, onto the knees of Blake’s trousers. 

Blood.

“Oh my God!” Blake says, high-pitched, terrified. “Oh my God, Sco!”

The metallic taste coats Schofield’s tongue and lips. He shuts his eyes for a moment, dazed by the effort it had taken to cough. If breathing had been hard before, now every inhalation is a conscious battle, triggering a sharp, knifelike pain low in his ribs. The whistling noise is louder now with every tattered breath.

Blake is panicking. “Sco? Sco? Speak to me.” His hands frantically flutter over Schofield’s torso. Blake makes a desperate noise and rips open Schofield’s outer jacket, trying to find the injury. Schofield’s eyes flick down. In the pale glow of Blake’s flashlight, he can see the distended curve of the right side of his chest under his shirt, ballooning upwards with trapped air.

Ah. Schofield swallows. “Blake,” he says softly, wheezing.

Blake snaps his eyes across to meet Schofield’s, eyes wide and young and afraid. “Sco?” The word comes out as a question. 

Schofield looks up at him, focused. “Listen, Blake. Are – you – listening?” Each word is punctuated by a whistling breath.

“Yes.”

“Take my tin – make your way into the wood – through the trees. The Devons will – be there, before the white trenches.” Every word is a painful effort. Schofield pants, eyes bright. “You’re early, Blake. The attack won’t – have started yet. Colonel Mackenzie is – in a dugout on the front line – ”

“ – Why are you telling me this?” Blake interrupts harshly. “You can show me the way, Sco, we’ll get you up and we’ll go together – ”

“Blake.” Schofield says, looking up at him, studying every line of his friend’s face.

Blake shakes his head in denial. “We’ll go – we’ll go together – ” his voice breaks.

“Blake,” Schofield says again. His voice is gentle. 

Blake’s face crumples. He shakes his head again and again, looking away.

“I don’t have much time.” Schofield says, matter of fact, brow furrowed in concentration. “Blake,” he says once more. “Look at me. Please.” 

Finally, unwillingly, Blake meets Schofield’s gaze. Blake’s eyes are brimming with tears.

Schofield smiles softly. “There. You can make it, Blake. You can” – he gasps for air – “save your brother. He’ll be so – happy to see you.” His breaths are coming shallower now, the right side of his chest barely rising and falling. 

“But – ” A wild frisson of hope sparks in Blake’s eyes. “If you – won’t you just go back to the beginning? You’ve gone back before – ”

Schofield blinks slowly, so tired. “I don’t think so, Blake. Each time – I died before, you couldn’t – finish the mission. This time you will. I think the point was always – to save you. I don’t think I’ll go back this time.”

Blake fists his hands in his hair in desperation, elbows on his knees. “But – ” his eyes are wild. He suddenly stills. “If you won’t go back unless…can’t I just – ” Blake cuts himself off abruptly. Swallows hard.

A chill goes through Schofield. “Blake,” he grinds out. “You musn’t. You musn’t, Blake – ”

Blake snaps up straight, looks around them, searching. Half-gets to his feet, muttering, face pale. “Lost my rifle in the river – no bayonet – ”

“ _Blake!_ ” Schofield calls with the last of his strength. The shout triggers another wave of shuddering coughs, blood spraying upwards from his parted lips. He writhes on the ground, choking on his own blood.

“No no no I’m sorry Sco – ” Blake’s hands are under Schofield’s head, tipping his face to the side until red drips out of the corner of his lips. Blake carefully moves Schofield into his lap, tilting him sideways to help him breathe.

Schofield scrabbles his left hand weakly in the dirt, until he finds Blake’s hand and latches on tight. “Blake,” he gasps, “Please. _Please._ You musn’t.”

Blake is quiet. His fingers thread through Schofield’s. 

“Blake. I did it – pulled the trigger. It destroyed me. Please Blake. You musn’t.” Schofield is pleading now, bandage-tipped fingers scratching uselessly at the back of Blake’s hand.

A long moment of silence. Then Blake mumbles, “I won’t.”

“Promise me. Swear it. Swear on – your mother and brother’s lives,” Schofield gasps out, fire burning in his lungs.

Another long moment. Then Blake speaks so quietly, it is nearly inaudible. “I swear.”

Schofield relaxes, head rolling limply in Blake’s lap. He is so tired. A cold ache seeps into his bones. Blake leans in close over him, holding him tight. His breaths ruffle Schofield’s hair.

Schofield lets go of Blake’s hand, reaches up falteringly towards his chest pocket. Blake gets there first, fingers gentle, lifting the tin out and opening it. Schofield lets his hand fall back onto the grass.

Blake takes out the letter of orders, putting it aside, under the lid. Then he carefully lifts out the two photographs at the bottom of the tin, holding his flashlight up to them.

For the first time in months, Schofield looks on the faces of his wife and children. His heart, so calm and accepting but a moment before, twists up inside him in an intense agony. His children are so young. And his wife, looking through her photograph as if straight through to his bare soul, her eyes so kind and loving and gentle. 

Schofield longs with every fibre of his being to hold them in his arms again. Why had he not spent every moment of his leave doing so? Why had he pushed them away, hardly bearing to touch them? Why had he put his wife’s letters away instead of reading them over and over again? The letters had stopped after a while. He wishes he had scribbled out a reply on every scrap of paper he could find.

Blake turns the photograph to the other side. 

_Come back to us x._

The little crossed kiss, in her handwriting. 

Schofield screws his eyes shut. His heartbeat is slowing. In between each wet, stuttering breath, there is a long pause. Dimly, he feels Blake press the photographs into his shirt, over his heart.

Blake takes his hand again, palm to palm. 

A drop of liquid falls on his face, rolls down the curve of his cheek. And another. Thunder rumbles overhead. Ah. The storm clouds have finally gathered. Schofield cracks open his eyes, half-lidded, seeking the sky.

It isn’t raining. Blake is crying.

Silent, hitching sobs, curled over Schofield, tears dripping off his face and running down Schofield’s temples. 

Schofield looks up at Blake, helpless. Schofield tries to smile up at him, tries to reassure, even to his last breath. But tears form unbidden at the corners of Schofield’s eyes, and he cries with Blake, at the sheer sorrow of it all, that at this last moment, Blake will live, but Schofield will not.

The sky finally cracks open with a peal of thunder. Rain cascades down on them, rattling through the trees. Schofield doesn’t know if the tracks running down his face are Blake’s tears, his own, or the rain.

“Tell me you know the way,” Schofield says, a bare susurration of air. 

Blake chokes the words out through his tears. “Yes. I know the way, Sco. I’ll take the letter and pass through the wood. I’ll find the Devons…the white trenches…”

Blake’s words grow fainter and fainter. Schofield sinks into the growing darkness, the pain in his arm and side slowly fading into a blissful warmth.

He smiles.

“Pick a man. Bring your kit.”

Schofield’s snaps open his eyes. NO. NO. NO NO NO – 

The weight of it all crashes down upon Schofield, suffocating. It was supposed to end! He was supposed to be free of this hell! A silent scream builds against his teeth, fighting against his lips. Schofield claps his hands over his mouth, retching. 

His right arm is unhurt. His ribs are whole. The grass under his boots, the tree behind his back – 

Schofield wants to die. Please let him die. He can’t do this again. _Don’t make me do it again._ And Blake, unknowing, distrusting, in danger all over again. Schofield won’t. He can’t.

“Sco?” Blake’s voice, small and questioning, right in front of him.

Schofield shuts his eyes tightly and buries his face in his knees. Blake should pick someone else. Just, please, pick someone else. 

“Sco?” There’s a tremble in Blake’s voice. “SCO!” 

The suddenness of Blake’s shout makes Schofield jump. He looks up.

Blake is crying. Schofield stares. 

Blake scrubs at his tears, laughing wetly. “You’re alive! Sco, you’re alive! Is this a dream? God, I hope it’s not!” Blake reaches forward and pulls Schofield into a tight embrace, knees and elbows and all.

Schofield sits there in Blake’s hold, confused, still half in despair. Blake sobs into his shoulder.

Abruptly, Blake puts his hands on Schofield’s arms and shoves Schofield away from him, looking straight into his eyes. “You remember, don’t you, Sco?” Blake says, fearful. “You came back too, didn’t you?”

Schofield’s eyes go wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...surprise? Blake's looped! Hope you guys didn't just rage quit the moment you read the line "Pick a man. Bring your kit."!
> 
> Apologies for the length of this chapter (over 9000 words). I couldn't find anywhere to cut it!
> 
> As always, if any of you would like to chat I have a tumblr - handle is @wafflesrisa. Inbox is open!
> 
> Comments would be most welcome - always up for a chat!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blake and Schofield.
> 
> Trigger/content warnings mentioned for previous chapters continue to apply to each chapter.
> 
> (Also I'm sorry for the late update, real life got in the way. Here, have another 9000-word chapter as an apology.)

Schofield stares at Blake. Blake’s grip on Schofield’s elbows is tight enough to be painful. The coarse bark of the tree is rough against Schofield’s back.

“Sco!” Blake gives Schofield a little shake as he crouches in front of him, eyes wide and desperate. “You came back, didn’t you? You must have.” An edge of fear enters Blake’s voice. “It can’t – it can’t have just been me?”

Schofield continues to stare, frozen, knees drawn to his chest. His hands are still half-raised to his mouth, where just a moment ago he had been holding back sheer nausea at the thought of having to do it all over again, the sickening agony of once more having to protect an unknowing Blake. 

Blake searches Schofield’s face, finds nothing. “Oh my God,” Blake says, looking away. He falls back on his heels with a tiny hysterical noise, sweeping back his hair under his helmet with a trembling hand. “It _is_ just me. How am I – how am I supposed to – ”

“– You remember?” Schofield says, a bare, disbelieving whisper. “You came back?”

Blake’s head snaps up, his face melting into pure relief. “Oh,” he chokes out, almost a sob. “Thank God.” Blake scrambles forward, throwing his arms around Schofield in a desperate hold. “You scared me, Sco.” He buries his face in Schofield’s shoulder.

Schofield’s arms automatically come around Blake to hold him in return. “But – wait a second, Blake – ” Schofield struggles to process. “What – how? I – I _died_ , you were about to finish the mission – how have you come back – ” 

Unless. Unless Blake had – 

Schofield goes very still. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe.

“Sco?” Blake asks, questioning, starting to draw back – 

Schofield seizes Blake’s collar in both of his hands, pushing Blake away and jerking him to a painful stop. Blake makes a small squeak of surprise, eyes wide.

“How dare you.” Schofield says, quiet and distant and ice-sharp. “How dare you, Blake.” Schofield’s hands shake with barely contained rage. 

“What are you talking about? Sco?” Blake says, confused, frightened. His shoulders are drawn up to his ears. He has the look of a cornered rabbit. 

The Sergeant’s voice sounds from down the dirt track. “Don’t dawdle!” Schofield snaps around at the noise, blows a sharp breath out through his nose. He whips his head back to Blake.

Blake’s hands come up to grip Schofield’s wrists, uselessly trying to pull Schofield’s hands away from his collar. “Sco – what’s going on – ”

Schofield leans in until he is almost nose-to-nose with Blake. “You promised you wouldn’t,” he spits out, knife-like. “You – effing – promised.”

Blake’s eyes widen in sudden understanding. He shakes his head, frantic. “No – Sco – it’s not what you think – I didn’t – ” 

Schofield lets go of Blake’s collar. Blake tips back, almost hitting his head on the ground. Schofield barely looks at Blake, standing in one smooth motion and scooping up his pack, slinging his rifle on his shoulder. He turns his back on Blake and just starts walking.

Schofield’s chest heaves in a roiling turmoil of emotion. Aching despair, that he is back at the beginning. Sweet relief that Blake remembers and Schofield is not alone. But festering over it all, a wild, burning rage. Blake had held Schofield as he died and promised he wouldn’t end his own life. Blake must have broken his promise. How else could he have come back?

Schofield’s long legs eat up the distance between the trees and the Sergeant, already at the mess tents. Behind him, Blake jogs to catch up, his pack jangling as he runs. “Sco – wait up – let me explain – ” he says, pleading.

Schofield shakes his head tightly, eyes trained straight ahead. He deliberately does not look at Blake. If he does, he does not know what he might do. 

Over the anger simmering under Schofield’s skin, there is a cold current of bitter sorrow. Schofield had held a pistol to his own head before, and pulled the trigger. It had ripped a ragged hole in his heart, still unhealed. Schofield had tried, and now failed, to shield Blake from the same fate. 

As he walks, Schofield’s eyes grow hot. 

Blake catches at Schofield’s sleeve. “Please Sco, listen to me. It’s not what you think. I didn’t do it – ” The trench walls rise to meet them, throwing them into cool shadow. They jostle through men passing in the opposite direction. “Please, Sco – just listen!”

Schofield stops suddenly. Blake nearly runs into his back. Schofield turns on Blake, eyes burning. “You _swore_ you wouldn’t, Blake! On your mother and brother’s lives! Do they mean so little to you?”

Something dangerous blazes to life in Blake’s eyes. “You SHUT UP, Sco!” he shouts, red with anger. 

This catches the attention of a good dozen men in the narrow trench. Up ahead, the Sergeant turns around, bellows down at them. “BLAKE!”

“Sir.” Blake is breathing hard, fists clenched.

“Would you like to pick someone else?”

Blake looks up at Schofield. For a terrifying moment, Schofield thinks Blake is going to say yes. Schofield swallows and half-reaches out for Blake, suddenly vulnerable.

Blake looks back at the Sergeant. “No sir,” he grinds out. 

“Good. Now cut the bickering and EFFING keep up.”

“Yessir.” They answer.

They keep walking.

Schofield takes a breath, opens his mouth – 

– “Just _listen_ , Sco. I didn’t do it, alright?” Blake speaks first, low and insistent, out of the corner of his mouth so the Sergeant doesn’t hear. “I kept my promise. After you – you – ” Blake’s voice breaks, head dipping down and away under the shadow of his helmet. His hand latches onto Schofield’s sleeve. Schofield’s heart twists. 

Blake takes a shuddering breath, continues. “I took the orders and went through the wood, the trenches. I found Colonel Mackenzie. Right _bastard_ he was.” Blake spits out the word with a personal vehemence. “He stopped the attack before it started. Then I found my brother. I – I cried for a bit.” 

Blake swallows, eyes still hidden under the rim of his helmet. “I felt so lost. I just ended up in field next to a tree, and I think fell asleep. Then I woke up and you were just there. I didn’t do it Sco. I swear.” Blake chokes up, voice catching. “I’m just so glad you’re alive. You were gone and I couldn’t – I couldn’t bear – ” The fingers in Schofield’s jacket tighten. 

Schofield softens.

“I’m alive, Blake,” Schofield murmurs. “I’m here.” Schofield reaches across with his other hand and rests it lightly on Blake’s. 

Blake finally looks up at Schofield, still shying away, half-afraid of rejection. His eyes are wet. 

Schofield bites his lip, guilt rising.

Blake turns his hand palm up under Schofield’s, seeking comfort. Schofield knows too intimately the need to hold on to someone he thinks was lost, to make sure they are real and not a figment of the imagination. So he threads his fingers through Blake’s without comment, even though the hold makes it difficult to weave their way through the passing men. Blake sniffles, his grip tight and desperate against Schofield’s palm. 

They move deeper into the trenches, Blake walking so close he is almost in Schofield’s shadow. Schofield clears his throat. “The first time – ” It feels like an age ago. He speaks in a low voice, eyes trained on the Sergeant’s back. “The first time through, you didn’t make it at the farmhouse. I went through Écoust and Croisilles Wood alone, delivered the orders, found your brother. I fell asleep against the same tree you did. Woke up back at the beginning.”

“You think maybe it’s cause of the tree, Sco?” Blake says.

“Who knows,” Schofield murmurs. A beat. “You’re back, that’s the important thing. We’re both here. And Blake,” Schofield swallows past the lump in his throat, suddenly supremely relieved. He turns his head to look Blake in the eyes for the first time since they had started walking. “Thank you. For keeping your promise. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

Almost instantly, Schofield knows his sincerity is too much for Blake. Blake makes a muffled noise, screwing his eyes shut. His hand begins to shake under Schofield’s, trembles visibly running up his arm and into his shoulder. “I had to just _leave_ you lying there – and I had to – I couldn’t – ” Blake gasps out, chest rising and falling rapidly. 

The dark entrance to General Erinmore’s dugout looms ahead. 

Schofield breathes in sharply. He grips Blake’s shoulder with another hand, leaning in close. “Listen, Blake,” he says intently. “You have to hold it together. I know what you’re feeling right now – ” Blake shakes his head, but Schofield tightens his grip, insistent. “Believe me. I know _exactly_ what it’s like,” he says, giving Blake a meaningful look. “We’ll talk later. You’ll be alright, trust me. Just hold it together until after we’ve been briefed, alright?”

Blake nods, gulping down tears. 

“Good,” Schofield says, “I’ll be with you. Just breathe.”

Blake visibly tries to calm himself. Schofield gives Blake’s shoulder one last squeeze and lets go, releasing Blake’s hand with his other at the same time. Blake lets out an involuntary gasp, tottering without a tether.

Schofield gives him a long, steadying look. _I’m here._

Blake nods again, face pale. Schofield ducks into the dim glow of General Erinmore’s dugout. Blake follows a moment after.

Schofield hardly listens to the briefing. He knows every inch of the mapped route by brutal experience. He could have drawn the route in blood. _Croisilles Wood, one mile south-east of the town of Écoust._ Instead, Schofield keeps a close eye on Blake.

Blake is shivering, glassy eyes reflecting the flickering lamplight. Schofield watches Blake’s fists clench tighter and tighter as the General points out each part of the route, until his fingers are as white and bloodless as his cracked lips. Schofield can tell that the horrifying memory of each part of the journey is just now, with the briefing, coming afresh into Blake’s mind. 

The General’s fingers trail through the German line. The quarry. The farmhouse. The canal. Écoust. The river. Blake sways on the spot.

General Erinmore braces his hands on the table, looks directly at them. “Two whole battalions. Sixteen hundred men, your brother among them.”

Blake goes very still. A ghostlike horror dawns on his face. Ah. Schofield takes a long, slow breath. Blake has finally understood what Schofield has known since the first time he had come back to the beginning.

Blake has finished the mission once. He’s delivered the message, he’s saved his brother.

It all doesn’t matter. It means nothing. 

Here they are, back at the beginning. Sixteen hundred men can still die. Joseph Blake can still die. 

They can still fail. 

The General sees Blake’s reaction, and a tired, grim satisfaction descends over the General’s features. Schofield sees it, and a fiery wall of protective anger roars to life in his chest. Schofield reigns it in masterfully, but not before General Erinmore’s catches the dangerous gleam in his eyes. The General is taken aback. 

Schofield keeps staring at the General, unblinking. He reaches for Blake’s shoulder next to him, grasps on tight, fingers digging into the wool of Blake’s jacket. _I’m still here._

A beat. A slow change comes over Blake. Schofield senses Blake settle into a grim determination.

The General frowns at them. “Any questions.”

Blake and Schofield speak as one man. “No, sir.” 

Schofield knows Blake is staring at the General too. The General swallows, unsettled. Schofield suppresses a taut smile. 

They collect their supplies, hands moving quickly. Schofield makes to step back up to the entrance, but he stops as Blake speaks behind him. “Sir.”

The General looks up from his maps. “What is it, Lance Corporal?”

Blake pulls out the little note, their orders for the Yorks in the frontline trench. “Sir, we’ll need new bayonets. Could we requisition them from the Yorks?” 

New bayonets. A bolt of lightning goes through Schofield. The storeroom in the barracks, rats swinging on ropes. The rowboat, under the bridge in Écoust. Precious seconds wasted sawing at knotted hemp with rusty blades. He looks at Blake in wonder.

The General frowns, gaze flicking to the leather sheaths hanging on their belts. “Why would you need new bayonets?” 

A mutinous shadow passes over Blake’s face. Schofield steps up quickly. “Sir – there’s only two of us. You’ve said not to expect any Hun, but just in case it come to close quarters, sir.” 

General Erinmore looks at the both of them. Sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he says, “give it here.” He takes the note and scribbles a few additional words at the bottom. “Good luck, Gentlemen.” 

They climb back into daylight. Blake’s lips are drawn into a thin line. “Here,” he says, sliding Colonel Mackenzie’s orders out of his jacket. “Put this in your tin, won’t you Sco? Best to think ahead.”

The river. Pitch black, no air, the current ripping into his broken ribs and torn arm – 

Schofield forces his shoulders to relax. Breathes in. Breathes out.

“…Yes,” Schofield says. He takes the letter from Blake and folds it carefully into his tin. His children look up at him from their photograph. Schofield’s heart aches with soul-deep longing, but he is surprised to feel no pain. He gazes at his children’s faces for a long moment, and closes the lid, tucking the tin back into his chest pocket. 

They look at each other. Blake is quiet, focused, a taut bowstring. Between them, there is the aching weight of things yet unsaid; the memory of rain on their faces and Schofield struggling to breathe, cradled in Blake’s arms. Blake’s eyes are haunted. Schofield closes his eyes for a moment. They need to talk.

But they have no time.

Schofield touches Blake’s elbow lightly. “The milk first. Then we’ll talk.” 

A ghost of pain drifts over Blake’s face. He nods, fingers clenched white.

They load their rifles as one, pulling back the bolt and loading fresh clips into the barrels. Schofield finishes first, his deft, practiced fingers flicking the second emptied clip into the mud, rotating the bolt back up and down the barrel with a smooth click. A phantom ache echoes in his right elbow. He shakes the arm out with a suppressed wince.

Blake notices. “Sco?” he says, hesitant, eyes flicking to Schofield’s arm and ribs. 

Schofield smiles quickly. “I’m fine.” He jerks his head down the trench. “Let’s go.” He snaps his rifle onto his shoulder with a sharp flick of the strap. 

They take the trenches at a flat run, barrelling past knots of men and equipment. Schofield makes a beeline for Lieutenant Leslie’s dugout. 

The Lieutenant is as slow to react to their presence as ever, taking his time to read the note and making painfully meandering progress to the lookout trench. A dozen mud-encrusted men watch Blake and Schofield with beady eyes as they enter the narrow trench.

Beside Schofield, Blake is practically vibrating with suppressed tension, eyes darting up to no man’s land, crouched over his toes as if preparing to run. Schofield catches Blake’s wrist, gives a sharp little shake of his head. 

“No reinforcements, and the brass want us to give you our bloody bayonets,” Lieutenant Leslie says in a slow, disbelieving drawl. He glances up from the note past Schofield, to where Blake already has a hand gripped tight on the ladder up to the parapet. The Lieutenant laughs bitterly. “So eager to die? Fine by me.”

Blake explodes. “Will you just _effing_ give us our bayonets, we have no time – ” 

“ _Blake!_ ” Schofield hisses, pulling at Blake’s wrist.

The trench goes silent. Every man is suddenly intently occupied with other things. A faint mutter drifts across to them. “Oh shit. Poor sod.” 

A dangerous gleam rises in the Lieutenant’s eyes. “What did you say, Lance Corporal?” He turns slowly towards Blake, cigarette burning up into his fingers, something languid and predatory in his posture. 

Schofield moves in front of Blake, hands out, placating. “Very sorry sir, it’s just nerves. Won’t happen again.”

Private Kilgour blessedly picks that moment to stumble noisily around the corner. “Um, I’ve got a flare sir, and our last bayonets – ” he juggles them in his gloved hands, coming to a stuttering stop.

Schofield hears Blake make a tiny noise of frustration behind him, shifting against the back of Schofield’s jacket. Schofield tightens his grip on Blake’s wrist. _Keep it together._

Blake sidles out from behind Schofield, jaw working. “Sorry sir,” he grinds out, looking at the ground, away from the Lieutenant’s flat stare.

Lieutenant Leslie is silent for a long, deadly moment.

The roar of two planes passing overhead.

Schofield and Blake snap up their heads at the noise. Schofield breathes out a curse. He half-turns, looks at Blake. A wordless understanding passes between them. 

Blake dashes out from behind Schofield and rips the flare and bayonets out of Kilgour’s arms. Schofield scrambles up the ladder and flings himself flat on the parapet. He reaches out for Blake’s hand, heaving Blake up after him with a grunt. 

Lieutenant Leslie looks up at them, nonplussed. He lifts his eyebrows. “Oh. Cheerio then.”

The men in the trench gaze at them in fascinated awe. “Poor sods,” someone mutters.

Schofield and Blake throw themselves onto their feet and dash for the British wire in a desperate sprint.

Their boots sink deep into the filth and mud. “I know the best way,” Schofield says as they run. Blake makes absolutely no argument. He simply nods in acknowledgement, face almost green with the rotting stench of no man’s land. Blake shifts his path so he is running directly behind Schofield, almost in his footsteps.

Schofield’s eyes are trained on the horizon, past the barbed wire, straining to glimpse two dim specks against the overcast sky. The drone of the planes fade into the far distance. 

Schofield wordlessly picks up the pace, teeth gritted. Behind him, Blake does the same. They carve a line towards and through the British wire, almost as the crow flies.

Schofield can’t remember how many times he has crossed this section of no man’s land. Every crater and crevice and fly-encrusted corpse comes too easily to mind, etched in grisly lines in his memory. He swallows bile as he darts forward, crouched low, feet almost ghosting over the ground. 

They drop into the German trench with no care for stealth. Blake lands heavily next to Schofield, his pack rattling against the wall. Blake frowns, peering down the trench. “Which way was it again – ”

Schofield just snatches up Blake’s sleeve and keeps running, pulling Blake along after him. They take the next few corners at breakneck speed, Blake almost crashing sideways into the sandbags as Schofield cuts through to the entrance of the underground barracks. 

Schofield throws himself down the stairs with a clatter, the yawning darkness of the doorway swallowing him whole. Blake stumbles down after him, dragged along. Blake makes to run deeper into the barracks – 

– Schofield jerks Blake to a rough stop. 

“What is it Sco?” Blake says, switching his torch on. “We’ve got to hurry!” The pale torchlight casts shifting shadows over them. Blake’s eyes are wide and dark, his face pale. Schofield can feel the rising anxiety in Blake’s voice. 

Schofield grasps Blake’s shoulder, trying to steady him. He speaks quickly. “Yes, we have to hurry. But we’ll have to be careful with the tripwire. Here’s what we’re going to – ”

Blake wrenches himself out of Schofield’s grasp, pulling his new bayonet from his belt and fixing it to his rifle. “I know – one person in the storeroom at a time – cut the bags – ”

Schofield steps forward and reaches out for Blake again. “Blake, wait, I’ll do it – ”

His outstretched hand closes on air as Blake whips around and runs down the barracks. The small pool of torchlight follows Blake as he disappears through the empty bedframes, instantly throwing Schofield into cold darkness. 

Schofield swears, fumbles for his own torch. “Blake – no – wait – ” he hisses. The weak light of Schofield’s torch flickers over his shaking hands as he lunges forward after Blake. His heart thunders madly in his ears. “Blake!”

The faint circle of light washes up and over the gaping mouth of the storeroom doorway, gleaming against the exposed bayonet in Blake’s hand. Blake’s back is turned as he saws away at the hanging bags. The new, oiled blade slices through the ropes like butter.

Schofield skids to a stop. “Blake, please!” he says, pleading, not daring to shout for fear of disturbing the rats skittering against the walls. “Please let me – ”

“It’s alright Sco, I’ll just be a moment,” Blake whispers over his shoulder. “Stay there.” He tosses a cut down bag out into the larger room. It lands with a small thump, rolling to a stop next to Schofield’s boots.

A rat darts out of the dark corner of the storeroom past Blake and through the doorway, scuttling sleek and black to latch onto the bag, inches from Schofield’s leg. 

Schofield flinches away. The tripwire is barely visible on the inside of the storeroom, a faint line across the far doorway. Schofield stares at it. He can hardly breathe, a pulsing pressure building in his ears and throbbing against his temples. 

Somehow Schofield finds his voice again. “Blake – ” It comes out as a strangled gasp. 

Blake looks up in alarm, pausing midway through a rope hanging by the door. His eyes widen at the sight of Schofield’s face. “Shit,” he says. “You have to breathe, Sco – I’m nearly done – just breathe – ” He works furiously at the few remaining bags, eyes darting back to Schofield in plain concern.

Schofield’s throat is closing. Each breath is a rapid sawing against the back of his mouth. All he can see is the glint of the tripwire and the rats squirming in and out of the shelves –

Someone is shaking him by the elbows, hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “Sco. Look at me. Sco!”

Schofield shudders. His eyes focus. Blake is looking up at him, blocking his view of the storeroom, brow creased. Blake’s grip on his arms is unyielding. 

“Sco?” Blake’s voice is soft, questioning. The torchlight glimmers over his bayonet, razor sharp and still attached to the rifle on his shoulder.

“I’m…I’m fine,” Schofield says. He feels very lightheaded. “I’ve got to – I have to – the tripwire – ” He very nearly tips forward onto Blake’s shoulder, but Blake tightens his grip, steadying him. 

“It’s alright, Sco,” Blake says carefully. “I’ve cut them all down, see?” 

Schofield’s gaze slides over Blake’s shoulder. A pile of severed burlap sacks lies heaped against a metal bunk, covered with squeaking rats. Schofield lets out a shaky breath that is almost a sob. 

Blake tugs at Schofield’s arm. “Come on. Watch your step.”

Schofield lets himself be pulled forward in a distant, terrified haze. The walls of the storeroom loom down on him as he steps over the tripwire with trembling knees. Blake slides under his arm and presses close until Schofield finds his feet again. 

Blake grabs hold of Schofield’s sleeve, and they run through the narrow, twisting passages, kicking up chalk dust in their wake. Their torches send crawling shadows writhing after them. 

Schofield feels Blake tug at his jacket. He looks up, eyes wide in the darkness –

– ahead, a square of pale light. 

They throw themselves out through the doorway. 

Daylight.

Schofield’s foot catches on loose rubble. He stumbles, nearly goes to his knees. Blake darts in front of Schofield and catches him, drawing him close. 

Schofield presses his forehead into Blake’s shoulder and struggles to get his breathing under control. 

A moment passes. Schofield puts his hands on Blake’s shoulders and pushes him to arm’s length. Blake blinks at the sudden movement. 

Schofield stares at Blake. Blake baulks at Schofield’s gaze. “I told you to wait.” Schofield’s voice comes out harsh, grating. “I’ve done this before, I’ve dealt with the tripwire! I know how! Why didn’t you wait?”

Blake bristles. “I already knew what to do, you told me! Cut the bags down, don’t shoot the rats. I did that, and we’re fine!” 

“But you hadn’t done it before – ”

“Sco!” Blake says, sharp. He reaches up to where Schofield’s hands tremble on his shoulders. “Sco,” he says again, softer. He looks earnestly up at Schofield. “We’re alive. I’m here. You don’t have to – ” Blake cuts off, looks up at the empty sky. He curses under his breath. “There’s no time. We’ll talk – ”

“ – after we get the milk,” Schofield says, dropping his hands away from Blake’s shoulders. 

Blake steps back and rummages for the flare, loading and firing it. “Up yours, Lieutenant,” Blake mutters. 

Schofield lets out a short laugh. There’s a hint of hysteria in it. 

“Sco?” Blake asks. 

Schofield looks away. “Nothing. You’ve just said that before,” he says. 

“Oh,” Blake mumbles, swallowing audibly. He throws away the flare with a clatter. 

They run.

Down the slope and through the quarry. Schofield pulls ahead again, his boots crunching on loose chalk scree as he scrambles up to the little copse of dead trees. Blake struggles to keep up. 

Schofield crests the hill. The orchard lies just ahead, the soft grey of the overcast clouds dappling the valley below it in cool shadow. Without conscious thought, Schofield’s steps stutter. He stops, staring down at the farmhouse, the tiny milk-pail just visible under the shadow of the barn. 

Blake draws even with Schofield, shoulder to shoulder, breathing hard from the exertion. Blake takes one look at Schofield and reaches up to grasp Schofield’s shoulder. “Sco,” he says easily. “I’m right here with you. I’m here.” 

Schofield tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. He doesn’t respond. He feels Blake’s fingers clench against his shoulder, grounding him. 

“It’ll be alright, Sco. Come on.” 

Schofield throws himself down the rise, Blake beside him. They slip through the wet grass and into the orchard, crushed cherry blossoms clinging to their damp boots. 

Schofield scrambles up through the dirt rise towards the farmhouse, craning his head to look at the sky over the distant fields. No planes in sight. He fumbles for his canteen as he runs. He wrenches the cap open and turns it upside down, shaking the water out as he stumbles the last few steps to collapse on his knees next to the pail of milk.

Schofield’s hands shake as he tries to tilt the pail towards the mouth of his canteen. He strains his ears for the low drone of approaching engines. Turning his head over his shoulder, Schofield scans the empty horizon. 

His fingers keep slipping on the edge of the pail – Schofield makes muted noise of frustration, still staring out over the rolling hills – 

“Oh for God’s sake Sco, I’ll do it.” Blake, faintly exasperated. Schofield snaps his head back round. 

Blake takes a firm grip on the pail, gently edging Schofield’s trembling fingers away. Schofield tries to shift his grip, but Blake shakes his head. “I’ve got it. _I’ve got it, Sco._ Relax.”

Blake finishes filling Schofield’s canteen. Schofield rushes to his feet, reaching out to hook his arm around Blake’s, meaning to pull Blake away, across the courtyard – 

– Blake slips his arm out from Schofield’s, turns back to the pail of milk. “Wait a bit Sco, I’m filling mine too. More for the baby, right? Lauri will be right chuffed.” 

“What are you _effing_ doing?” Schofield rounds on Blake. “We’ve got to get away from this barn now – ”

“Sco – ”

“The plane could be coming any second!”

“SCO!” Blake straightens up from where he is crouched, eyes blazing. “Stop shouting and listen to me!” 

Schofield jolts. He hadn’t realised his voice had been raised.

Blake plugs the cap on his canteen and surges to his feet. He grabs Schofield with both arms, holding him in place. 

“What are you – ” Schofield says in plain confusion, arms pinned against his sides, looking down at Blake’s helmet. 

Blake looks up, straight into Schofield’s eyes. “Sco.” Blake’s gaze is bullish, determined. “Be quiet. Listen. What don’t you hear?”

Schofield frowns, struggles in vain against Blake’s hold. “We’ve got to move – ”

Blake squeezes his arms, bracing his weight so that Schofield is forced to stay put. Schofield lets out a yelp of pain. Is this a _wrestling_ hold?

“Stop moving! Listen, Sco! _What don’t you hear?_ ”

Schofield stops fighting. He tilts his head, and listens. He hears – 

The grass, rustling in the breeze. A quiet lowing from the cow outside the barn. The creak of the cherry trees, faint upon the wind whistling up the shallow valley. 

His own ragged breathing. Blake’s breaths, soft over his shoulder.

What doesn’t he hear?

No planes.

Schofield trembles. 

Blake seems to notice. A moment later, his iron grip relaxes into a gentle hold. Schofield buries his face into Blake’s shoulder. Blake’s canteen is a cold lump pressed against his back, where Blake holds him tight.

“Sco, do you understand?” Blake’s voice is gentle, exasperated. Schofield nods into Blake’s jacket. Blake reaches up to put a comforting hand on the back of Schofield head, where his helmet meets his hair. “We’re running early. The planes aren’t here yet. I’m alive. You’re alive. We’ve got two full canteens of milk. That’s going to be one fat baby.”

Schofield’s cheeks are damp where they are pressed into Blake’s shoulder. His arms come up slowly, fingers curling into Blake’s webbing.

Blake isn’t finished yet. “Sco, things don’t have to happen the same way as before. You’ve been through this more times than I have. But you don’t have to take everything on alone.” A smile grows in Blake’s voice. “Stop being so bloody up yourself. You’re not all that, Sco.”

Schofield lets out a wet, bubbling laugh. “Yeah,” he murmurs. The tight ball of nervous anxiety in his chest finally begins to loosen. Along with the drop in adrenaline comes a sudden wave of crushing fatigue that nearly topples Schofield over. He sways in Blake’s arms, lightheaded.

“Sco?” Blake says in alarm.

“I’m alright,” Schofield says, blinking spots out of his vision. “Just tired.”

Blake nods. “Yeah. You’ve been going a long time.” 

Over the hills, the sound of droning engines. An approaching dogfight.

Schofield and Blake both tense. They break away and move as one across the courtyard towards the dirt track, stopping two score yards away at far end of the farmhouse. Schofield scrubs the back of his hand across his eyes. 

Blake nudges him, flicks his chin at the planes. “Told you so.”

“Oh shut up.” 

Blake grins.

They watch the midair dogfight grow closer and closer. The German plane spirals down, trailing black smoke, dipping below the horizon. 

Schofield tenses. Blake’s smile slips off his face. The still air shivers with the relentless drone of the plane’s dying engine, louder and louder – 

CRASH. Blake flinches, brushing up against Schofield’s side.

The barn erupts in flames, the wreckage of the plane glowing red orange. The smell of burning engine oil fans across the courtyard. From the cockpit, agonised screaming.

Blake lets out a shuddering breath. “We should put him out of his misery,” he says. “I’ll do it.” He unslings his rifle and raises it, jaw clenched, chest heaving. His hand shakes on the trigger.

Schofield puts a gentle hand on the barrel of Blake’s rifle, letting the weight of his arm lower it to the ground. Blake looks up at Schofield.

“Thank you, Blake,” Schofield says quietly. “Some burdens should be mine to bear, not yours.” He steps forward, sweeps his rifle off his shoulder, sights down the barrel and fires.

The screaming cuts off.

Schofield clicks back the bolt in one, swift motion, chambers a new bullet and fires again. 

Silence, except for the crackling of the flames.

Schofield lowers his rifle, slings it back onto his shoulder. He lets out a long, slow breath of relief, and turns around to face Blake. Schofield stops. 

Blake is crying.

Deep, hitching sobs. Blake’s eyes widen in blank surprise at the tears running down his cheeks, his nose reddening against the stark paleness of his face. Blake scrubs at his eyes, sees the tears glistening on the back of his hands. He makes a tiny noise of confusion. He looks at Schofield as if asking for an explanation, afraid, a little lost. 

“Oh, Blake,” Schofield says softly, tilting his head in quiet commiseration. He closes the gap between them and takes Blake gently by the elbow. “Come on.” 

Schofield guides Blake up the slope and around the corner of the farmhouse, out of view of the burning wreckage and the pilot’s slowly charring corpse. He settles Blake against the farmhouse wall, within view of the fallen tree across the dirt path. Blake plops down, still blinking at the tears dripping off his nose, bewildered. He hiccups.

“There we are.” Schofield says with an air of muted satisfaction. He takes off his pack and eases himself down next to Blake, the stone wall scraping against the back of his jacket. Schofield reaches over and folds Blake wordlessly into his arms, tucking Blake in close under his chin. Blake curls in on instinct, burying his face in Schofield’s shoulder.

A beat. Then another.

“Talk to me, Blake,” Schofield says quietly. He thinks he already knows. But sometimes wounds need to be aired before they can begin to heal.

Blake shifts against Schofield’s jacket. “I – I – don’t know!” He makes a muffled noise of frustration. “I’m just – I’m just – ”

“Shhhh,” Schofield soothes. “It’s alright. Take your time.”

Blake is quiet for a long moment, struggling to control his breathing. Schofield waits, patient.

When Blake speaks, it is barely a whisper. Schofield has to curl over Blake to hear. 

“It was my fault.”

“What was?”

“You were gone, Sco. And it was my fault. Last time I didn’t listen, and you got hurt here. If your ribs hadn’t been broken when we went into the river – ” Blake crumples into a tight ball, fingers gripping into Schofield’s sleeve. “I had to go on by myself. You were all white and cold and I – I had to leave you lying there.”

Schofield closes his eyes. Yes. Yes, he knows what that is like.

“And the worst of it – the _worst_ – ” Blake half-lifts his head, lips parted in a snarl. “That _bastard_ Mackenzie couldn’t care less. He was going to send my brother up and over anyway. He wouldn’t even listen until I told him it was a trap. They don’t give a shit about us, Sco. We could die twice over delivering this message and they wouldn’t give a shit.”

Schofield sighs, his cheek scraping against the edge of Blake’s helmet. “I know.”

“It’s not right. It’s an effing joke. Eight miles of hell, best – best friend dead and told to effing bugger off.” 

“I’m not dead, Blake.” Schofield says quite firmly.

Blake shudders. “But you were, Sco.” 

“Not anymore,” Schofield says. “Look. My ribs are fine. My arm is fine. We’re alive, Blake. We’ll get through this together. We know the way.” He shifts to hold Blake more tightly by the shoulders, his voice low and calm. “The convoy will be here soon. We’ll go along with them until we hit Écoust. We’ll pass through the town and out to the east, all the way to Croisilles Wood.”

Blake is very quiet. The tear tracks are drying on his face. “There’s still the sniper, and the Germans in Écoust, and the river – ”

Schofield shakes his head. “That won’t bother us. We’ve done it all before.” 

Blake swallows, steadied by the certainty in Schofield’s voice. “We’ll find my brother. We’ll deliver the message together.”

“Yes, Blake.” 

A beat. Then Blake shifts, sitting back against the stone wall. He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Thanks, Sco.”

Schofield’s brow furrows as he looks down at Blake. “What for?”

“I didn’t want to shoot him.” Blake looks down the slope, where black smoke continues to rise, snatched away by the wind. “I know I said you don’t have to do things alone. But I couldn’t shoot him.”

Schofield follows his gaze. “I know. That’s alright. It wasn’t your burden to bear.” The wind rustles past them, scattering dead leaves onto the dirt path.

The sound of truck engines in the distance, rumbling closer.

Schofield stands, shouldering his pack. He reaches down and offers his hand to Blake.

Blake looks up at Schofield for a moment. He smiles faintly, and lets Schofield heave him up to his feet. Their boots squelch on the muddy path as they watch the line of trucks trundling slowly towards them.

Schofield looks at Blake wryly. “Where did you learn to grapple like that? I know a wrestling hold when I see one.”

Blake blinks, nonplussed. “Um. Joe and I fought a lot, growing up. Tussling, you know. He’s taller than me so I had to learn a good few tricks, being younger and all.” Blake smiles at the memory. Schofield smiles with him.

Blake’s eyes are far away. “One time we were picking cherries in mum’s orchard – ” His voice suddenly changes, dwindles off. Blake swallows and looks down at his feet, chest heaving. The smile slides off his face.

Schofield understands all too well. He rests a hand on Blake’s shoulder briefly, a fleeting touch. “It’s hard to think of home,” he says quietly. Blake nods. Schofield reaches absently into his jacket pocket. His tin is warm against his chest.

The convoy putters up the rise, screeching to a stop in front of the fallen tree. Men filter out from the trucks, a few heading behind the farmhouse, some wandering up the line of vehicles. 

At the front of the convoy, the Colonel leans out of his motorcar and swears loudly. He twists around and waves the men forward from the trucks. “Well? Stop gaping, you fools, move the damn thing!” He points. “You! And you! Get a bloody move on!” A groan of assent sounds from the men. A few stragglers make a swift decision and pretend not to hear, ducking back inside the trucks.

The Colonel’s piggish eyes rove over the men and land on Blake and Schofield. He squints. “You two!” He barks.

They look at each other and step forward, towards the motorcar. “Sir.” 

“You’re not with mine.”

“No sir,” Schofield says carefully. “We have – ”

“What the hell are you doing here Corporal?”

Blake steps up. “As he was saying sir, we have an urgent message for the 2nd Devons – ”

“Nothing to do with us then, I take it. Either bugger off or help clear the road.”

Blake’s expression grows mutinous. Schofield grits his teeth, tries again. “Sir, we have orders – ”

The Colonel is already looking away, gesturing impatiently at the men gathering around the fallen tree.

A voice sounds next to them. “Where are the 2nd Devons stationed?” Captain Smith, quietly reasonable, cane in hand. 

Schofield’s shoulders relax instinctively. “Sir. Just past Écoust. We have orders to stop the attack at dawn. It’s a trap, sir.”

“Sixteen hundred men, sir.” Blake says, voice tight.

“We’re passing through Écoust,” the Captain says. “Sir – ” he addresses the Colonel.

The Colonel turns around, irritable. “What is it?”

Captain Smith explains the situation, but Colonel loses interest almost immediately. The Captain speaks quickly. “There’s room in the casuals truck – ”

“Oh fine, fine.” The Colonel waves him off.

The Captain turns to them. “Come with me.”

The walk to the truck is brief. Blake trembles with anger, staring back at the Colonel. “Bastards, all of them,” he whispers under his breath. Schofield reaches out and grasps Blake’s wrist with the tips of his fingers, feather-light. Blake nods, visibly trying to calm.

They climb into the back of the truck. Captain Smith pauses, hand on the step, and gives them both an assessing look. Something he sees in their eyes makes his face cloud over in concern. “You’ve come a long way, lads,” he says quietly.

Blake looks away. Schofield is expressionless. “Yes sir,” he says simply.

The Captain nods. “Try to get some rest. There’s a good five miles until Écoust. I’ll come by when we pass the town.” 

“Thank you sir.”

The Captain slaps a hand on the side of the truck and walks back up the line.

Schofield goes to sit against the tarpaulin, but Blake suddenly straightens. 

“Blake?”

“Wait a second – ” Blake leaves his rifle on the floor of the truck and hops out, disappearing around the corner towards the driver’s cab. Schofield hears him speak with the driver.

“Hey mate, if you see any big patches of mud on the track, could you drive around?”

“Oh sod off.”

“Just do us all a favour mate. Cheers.”

Blake reappears again, heaving himself up to sit next to Schofield. Schofield gives him an unreadable look. Blake looks right back at him. “What? Worth a shot.”

Schofield sighs. The truck starts moving, bouncing along the dirt track, the farmhouse fading into the distance. Chatter rises among the men. 

By and by, Schofield realises Blake has gone very quiet. Schofield glances over and sees that Blake’s eyes are fixed, unblinking, on Schofield’s ribs and right arm. Ah. “Blake,” he says softly. 

Blake comes to himself with a jolt. “Sco?”

“I’m fine, Blake. I’m alright.” Schofield says. 

Blake takes a deep breath. “Yes.” His fingers twitch towards Schofield, as if wanting to double check. “Yes,” Blake says again, almost to himself. 

The ground passing from underneath the truck is growing softer and darker. Schofield braces himself for the inevitable lurch of the wheels. 

The truck swerves gently to the left, and then to the right. It carries on unhindered, passing by the bodies of dead cows strewn in the fields beside the path.

Schofield watches as the ground hardens again to yellow grass. Blake clips his elbow gently. Schofield looks up. Blake’s face is boyishly smug.

Schofield rolls his eyes. “Oh shut up,” he says under his breath.

“Second time today,” Blake says, eyebrows lifting gamely.

They settle into a companionable silence, in their own little circle of quiet amongst the chatter. Schofield closes his eyes and allows himself a moment of respite. The rocking motion of the truck lulls him slowly towards rest – 

The truck screeches to a stop. “Bridge is down!”

Schofield comes back to himself with a sharp intake of breath. His cheek is rolling unexpectedly against warm wool. He blinks, lifting his head. 

Blake gives Schofield a small smile in greeting. It quickly turns into a groan of disgust as he looks down at his shoulder. “Sco, you’ve drooled all over my jacket!”

Schofield scrubs at his face. “Sorry,” he says, a little embarrassed.

“It’s ok,” Blake says, suddenly serious. “You needed the rest.” Schofield is grateful. They stand, boots clacking on the cobblestones as they exit the truck. 

The ruins of Écoust sprawl out ahead of them, grey and forbidding in the dying afternoon light. The broken bridge slopes high and treacherous into the dark depths of the industrial canal. Looming a stone’s throw away from the opposite bank is the brick lock house, terrifyingly familiar. Fading sunlight glints faintly off something metallic in the recesses of the second storey window.

Blake goes rigid next to Schofield at the sight. Schofield releases a long, slow breath, trying to master the anxiety churning in his chest.

Further up the convoy, a figure detaches himself from the back of a truck. Captain Smith makes his way towards them. “Next bridge is six miles. We’ll have to divert.” 

Schofield turns to face the Captain. “Thank you sir. We’ll cross here.”

The Captain nods. He shakes Blake’s hand, then Schofield’s. He pauses. “When you get to Colonel Mackenzie – ”

“ – make sure there are others, yes sir.” Schofield finishes the sentence. He holds the Captain’s gaze with a level look.

Something changes in Captain Smith’s expression. “You understand.” He looks over them again. There’s an unhappy set to his mouth. “When you get to the Devons, get yourself some rest and food. It’ll be well-deserved.” He turns away.

Schofield steps up, speaks quickly. “Sir. There’s a sniper in the brick building across the bridge. Could you delay moving off?” Behind him, he hears Blake check the bolt of his rifle with a surreptitious click.

The Captain’s face grows dark, his eyes flicking carefully to the lock house and back. “I’ll delay as long as we can. God be with you lads. Go quickly.”

Schofield doesn’t wait for the Captain to leave and speak to his rifleman. He whips around and takes off at a dead sprint for the downed bridge. Blake dashes alongside him, pack clattering as he runs.

Schofield reaches the bridge first and heaves himself up to the high railing. He reaches down to help Blake up after him. They crouch on the iron studs and scramble cat-footed down towards the water, muddied boots sliding on the narrow rail in their haste.

Schofield risks snatching a glance over his shoulder at the convoy. The Captain is leaning inside one of the trucks in the front, speaking to a man. Schofield’s heart thunders in his chest. He reminds himself to breathe.

Blake’s hand braces against Schofield’s back, trembling with adrenaline. “Hurry Sco!” 

Schofield wrenches his head back around. He is nearly at the waterline, the black, brackish water lapping at his toes. Schofield looks from his feet to the sloping rail opposite and leaps. 

For a moment he is suspended in the air. Then he makes painful impact against the girders on the other side, feet trailing momentarily in the water. He wrestles back onto the cross-hatching, ducking low under the lee of the top rail on instinct. 

No gunshot. 

Schofield’s heart is in his mouth. He gestures back at Blake, teeth gritted. _Come on!_ Behind Blake, the Captain is now at the Colonel’s motorcar. He is in earnest conversation with the Colonel, the tension in his posture visible even at this distance. Snatches of their conversation drift over to them, borne on the cold breeze. The Colonel’s voice is raised.

Schofield reaches out to Blake, straining.

Blake leaps across the gap towards Schofield. He misjudges the distance and bounces off painfully, head snapping back with the impact. His foot slips on the lowest girder. For a terrifying moment Blake’s arms windmill backwards, his eyes going wide – 

– Schofield flings his right arm around the railing and throws out his left, fingers catching in Blake’s jerkin. Their combined weight bears on his bent arm, the sudden pain echoing ghostlike in his elbow. With a roar of effort, he heaves Blake back onto the latticework. Blake latches on, and they cling there next to each other for a moment, breathing heavily. Blake’s face is red with exertion.

The truck engines start with a splutter. The Captain straightens as the Colonel’s motorcar begins to roll forward past him. Schofield sees the Captain turn and look straight at them, cane gripped tight in his gloved hand. 

“Blake, we’ve got to go now!” Schofield hisses. He rips his aching right elbow off the girder and latches on to the next one, and then the next, forcing his slipping boots to catch on the thin iron lip of the lowest rail.

Schofield drops with a thump onto the narrow walkway on the far bank. He crouches under the cover of the high wall, back pressed into the stonework. “Come on!” he hisses up at Blake, moving backwards to give Blake space to land.

Blake braces his feet and ducks low to jump down – 

CRACK.

The shot slams into Blake’s helmet with a metallic clang, the bullet slapping into the water. The helmet rips off Blake’s head and disappears with a splash.

“BLAKE!” Schofield screams. He lurches forward.

Blake tumbles down, almost on top of Schofield. His head knocks against Schofield’s chin as he falls, leaving a bloody streak across Schofield’s jaw. They land in a crumpled heap against the stone walkway, Blake in Schofield’s arms.

“BLAKE!” Schofield shouts again, fingers in Blake’s hair, searching frantically for the wound – 

Blake’s eyes blink open, a little dazed. “Sco, I’m – I’m alright, I think – ”

“No, you’re bleeding – ” Schofield says, fighting down the terror clawing its way up his throat. He struggles to gasp in a breath. “You’re bleeding, Blake – ” 

Blake shifts with a groan, fighting to sit up. “I think it just grazed me. Effing useless helmet.” He puts a hand gingerly to his temple. His fingers come away red.

CRACK.

Splinters of stone fly off the parapet above their heads. Blake flinches, head scrunching down into his shoulders. 

Schofield curses. He reaches into his jerkin and pulls out a bandage, tearing it with bared teeth. He makes quick work of binding Blake’s head, wrapping the bandage around tight and tying the ends off. Blake hisses at the pressure on his temples, but climbs to his hands and knees, wincing.

Snatching up his rifle, Schofield moves carefully past Blake and ducks under the shadow of the bridge. The cool darkness washes over him –

CRACK – PING!

A bullet ricochets off the latticework right above their heads. Schofield flinches, holding his rifle low and ready in front of him as he creeps forward. Blake follows close behind, rifle in the crook of one arm, his other hand braced on the stone wall. 

Schofield pauses right before the flight of stairs leading up to the pavement. He takes a deep breath, flings himself across the gap. 

CRACK.

The bullet slices through a strap of Schofield’s webbing, cleaving his sheathed bayonet from his side. It rattles down the steps. Schofield presses his back against the staircase railing, rifle held tight against him, breathing hard. 

Blake crouches low opposite Schofield, against the stone wall. He bites his lip and tries to use the butt of his rifle to scrape the fallen bayonet closer.

CRACK. The bullet skips off the ground, flicking the end of the bayonet up and into the air. Blake jumps, cursing. 

“Leave it, Blake!” Schofield snaps out. Blake’s face is a pale, grim white, lips bloodless. He looks at Schofield, rifle at the ready. 

Schofield swallows. “I’ll lay down covering fire. Follow me, on my mark.”

Blake nods, his whole frame taut with tension.

Schofield closes his eyes for a moment, stilling himself. With a sharp inhale, his eyes fly open and he leaps up the steps, swinging his rifle up onto the pavement. He fires.

CRACK – CRACK.

Schofield’s shot slams into the wooden frame of the lock house window, sending splinters flying. At the same instant, the sniper’s bullet slaps the cobblestone ground next to Schofield’s elbow, whizzing past his ear with inches to spare. 

Schofield takes a deep breath – manoeuvres the bolt back, the spent casing flying out in an arc past his eyes – pushes the bolt forward again to chamber a new bullet – sights down the barrel – fires – CRACK – repeats once more, cold sweat running into his eyes, blurring the faint glimmer of the sniper’s rifle in the window – CRACK.

The glimmer disappears, swallowed in the darkness of the window frame. 

Schofield straightens in an instant, his feet coming up from under him and driving into the stone steps. “Now, Blake!” he shouts over his shoulder. Schofield rushes up and into the square, running with his rifle held high and ready, eyes trained on the empty window. 

A flash of movement across the frame – 

Schofield snaps his rifle up to his eyes and fires off another shot – CRACK. 

The glint disappears again. A beat. Nothing more. 

Schofield is halfway across the square, feet crashing against the cobblestones. He flings his head back and shouts for Blake again. “Now, Blake, now!”

Blake scrambles up and out of the lee of the steps, nearly tripping on the edge of the pavement. He rights himself, cursing – 

CRACK. From above!

Schofield whips his head up to look at the lock house window, eyes burning – 

Blake cries out, a ragged sound of pain.

Schofield’s heart stops beating. He wrenches back around, just in time to see Blake crumple backwards, disappearing down the steps and out of view. 

“NO! BLAKE!” Schofield screams, shifting his weight instinctively to run back towards the steps – 

CRACK. 

A bullet rips up pieces of stone in front of Schofield’s feet. “BLAKE!” Schofield bellows again – 

CRACK.

Another bullet smashes into the cobblestones, shrapnel tearing long gashes in Schofield’s boots.

Schofield spits out a curse. He tears his eyes away from the empty space where Blake had been and drives his feet into the ground, tearing up the square towards the lock house door. 

Schofield slams his shoulder into the entrance. The wood rips painfully at his jacket. He doesn’t feel it. He pounds up the stairs four at a time, teeth bared, an animalistic howl pressing against his lips –

The staircase landing – the doorway to the second floor looming dark and forbidding, light streaming through the two glass panes at the top – 

Schofield barrels through the door, firing on instinct –

A glimpse of the German soldier half-collapsed under the window, rifle raised – 

CRACK – CRACK.

The force of the bullet hits Schofield’s helmet like a sledgehammer, snapping his head backwards on his neck –

He careens backward, his foot catching on the top stair –

BAM.

Darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnnnn. Is Blake alive? Is Schofield alive? We shall have to wait and see...
> 
> As I've mentioned on tumblr as well in the above A/N, life has been difficult these past two weeks. But the 1917 fandom is full of gorgeous, lovely people and your comments and messages have been very encouraging. Apologies if I haven't replied to your comment yet, I intend to do so soon.
> 
> In particular I have discovered a group of absolutely brilliant writers who have become fast friends of mine in the past week. Ladies, I am honoured to be one of the 1917 Longfic Lads. Dear readers, while you are waiting for the next chapter do check out their 1917 fics - they are fantastically written, utterly gripping and some of the best writing I have been lucky enough to encounter.
> 
> Their ao3 names are as follows: Ealasaid, LadyCharity, Pavuvu, Scientistsinistral.
> 
> Want a Ghost!Blake AU? Check out Ealasaid and Pavuvu. Want gorgeous 1917/Dunkirk crossover fic? Check out Lady Charity and Scientistsinistral. I promise you will not regret it.
> 
> Full credit to Ealasaid for the lovely idea of Blake asking the truck driver to swerve around patches of mud - inspired a lot of the character development this chapter! Ealasaid I love you xx
> 
> As always, if any of you would like to chat I have a tumblr - handle is @wafflesrisa. Inbox is open!
> 
> Comments would be most welcome - always up for a chat!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beyond all human endurance.
> 
> Trigger/content warnings mentioned for previous chapters continue to apply to each chapter.
> 
> (I'm sorry for the late update again! Took a bit of a break to rest - but here, have a chapter that's nearly 14000 words!)

Darkness. Silence.

Schofield drifts. For a while, he thinks of nothing. He is nothing. But as time passes, Schofield becomes more and more aware that he is not awake, and there is something he has forgotten. His eyelids flutter as he struggles, and fails, to open his eyes. _There is something he has forgotten, and his eyes won’t open._

Cold terror fills Schofield. He flails up through the thick treacle-like layers of his consciousness, drowning in the inky darkness. What has he forgotten? He must wake up. Wake up. He tries to wrench his eyes open – 

Darkness. Silence. 

He is still not awake! Yet another layer of grey nothingness, a hollow dreamscape. A desperate anxiety builds in Schofield’s chest. He claws upwards at the dark, the dark, the dark – 

Schofield opens his eyes with a ragged gasp.

Darkness. Silence. 

Schofield chokes back a horrified whimper.

Then – a slow dripping of water, somewhere above Schofield. Rumbling thunder in the distance. He is finally awake. A slow sob of relief bubbles up through his throat.

Schofield's eyes focus in a slow haze, staring up into the murk. He is lying flat on his back. A faint glow from the direction of his feet casts deep orange shadows against the ceiling. Wooden floorboards, rough against his spine – where is he? He tries to lift his head – 

Agony rips through the back of Schofield’s skull, pulsing in tandem with his heartbeat. A rattling gasp escapes unbidden through his lips. He screws his eyelids shut for a brief moment, before the terrifying darkness forces them open once more. Schofield pants through gritted teeth, lying there, trying to order his thoughts against the pain. 

With effort, he brings his hand slowly to the back of his throbbing head, searching. His fingers find the rough linen of a bandage. Schofield flinches, hissing. His fingertips come away wet, smelling of rust.

Where is he? And what has he forgotten?

HISS-SNAP.

Light! White and blinding. It throws harsh shadows from Schofield’s boots, writhing over his body and up the walls, illuminating peeling wallpaper –– the dead body of a German soldier against a window into the night – 

Écoust. The lock house. 

Schofield seizes up in involuntary horror. 

_What have you forgotten?_

Blake. 

Where is Blake? Where – 

Memory rushes in, a crimson ribbon tearing through the wound in Schofield’s head. The CRACK of the sniper’s rifle in the courtyard – Blake crying out in pain and crumpling out of view down the stone steps to the canal bank – Schofield screaming Blake’s name – bullets kicking up stone shrapnel from the cobblestones – the mad rush up the lock house stairs – the glint of the sniper’s rifle through the doorway – 

Schofield rolls to his side with a strangled gasp, fighting to get up on his knees. His head spins, and his hands slip out from under him. Schofield crashes down face-first, jaw jarring against the floor as he lands heavily on his other side. A wave of nausea rises, and Schofield retches up empty stomach acid, trembling against the floorboards.

In the last moments of the dying flare, Schofield sees the blurry shape of another body.

His eyes widen.

Blake is slumped limply against the wall, eyes closed, face ghost-pale. A thick bandage is wrapped around the upper part of his right leg, soaked through with dark liquid. He does not move.

Schofield can barely breathe. His eyes flick to Blake’s chest – is it rising and falling? Please – _please_ – 

The light dies before he can see for certain.

Schofield makes a noise that is barely recognisable as human. He struggles up from his pool of vomit and crawls forward in the darkness, as if in a dream. He grasps Blake’s wrist, fumbling for a pulse with a desperate, horrified urgency. Where is that _damned_ artery – 

“AAAAH!” Blake shudders awake with a strangled yell, ripping his arm away from Schofield’s grasp.

Schofield flinches back at the noise. The sudden movement sends a wave of pain exploding at the base of his skull. He stifles a scream.

“SCO? Is that you?” Blake’s voice, wild and high-pitched in the darkness. “Sco?”

Schofield goes limp with relief. He scrabbles in the murk until his fingers latch onto the front of Blake’s jacket, and crumples forward into Blake’s shoulder. “Yes.” His voice comes out as a bare croak. “Yes, it’s me.”

Blake makes a tiny noise of relief, and his arms come up to hold Schofield tight. They are both shaking.

Schofield swallows. “Oh my God, Blake. I thought you were dead.” He grips Blake’s collar, trying to make sure that this is reality, that Blake is really alive. 

Blake shakes his head vehemently against Schofield’s ear. “ _You_ effing scared _me_ , Sco. Your head – there was so much blood on the stairs – and you wouldn’t wake up, even after I bandaged it. It’s been _hours_.” 

A chill goes through Schofield. Hours. They’ve lost time.

HISS-SNAP.

Schofield feels Blake’s fingers tighten plaintively in his jacket, but he leans back from Blake’s hold as the harsh light washes over them. He casts an assessing eye over the bandage on Blake’s leg, clenching his jaw against the pain in his head. The bandage is almost completely saturated with old blood, dull red. 

Blake tracks Schofield’s gaze, squinting against the glare of the magnesium light. “I think it’s just a graze. It effing hurts, but I think I’ve stopped the bleeding.” Blake grimaces, face white-pale. “It took a while. I had to use the bandage from my head as well. Right bastard of a Hun.” He glances over Schofield’s shoulder at the corpse of the German, eyes clouding over in anger. It does not quite hide the tremble in his voice.

Schofield makes a quiet, neutral noise and shifts closer. He casts a confused glance over his shoulder, at the open window and out towards the canal. 

Hadn’t he fallen on the staircase landing? And hadn’t Blake been hit next to the canal bank, across the courtyard? How is it that they are both here in the upstairs room? Schofield’s gaze lands on Blake’s wounded leg again. The bandage is wet through with more blood than there should have been for a mere graze.

Unless – Blake had heard the silence after the sniper’s final gunshot. Unless Blake had dragged himself painfully across the courtyard, dripping blood on the stairs, calling out for Schofield, with no answer. Until he had found Schofield on the landing, and somehow hauled them both up into the room.

Oh, Blake.

Blake sees Schofield’s expression. His face shutters. “Don’t – ” Blake says tautly, visibly struggling to maintain control. “Just – don’t.” He looks away.

Schofield nods. “Alright,” he says simply. A deep ache grows in his chest. A week ago, Blake would have accepted comfort without complaint. He would have laughed through his tears and made a joking reference to finally getting a brass wound stripe to match Schofield’s. Schofield closes his eyes briefly. 

Many things are lost in war. 

Schofield reaches out for Blake’s chin and tilts it gently so the light falls on Blake’s temple, where the other bullet had ripped his helmet off on their descent from the canal bridge. A thin trail of dried blood tracks down next to Blake’s ear. 

Schofield’s lips thin. He reaches inside his jacket for his spare bandages. 

Blake reaches out and lays a hand on Schofield’s arm, stilling him. “Save it. I’ll be fine, Sco,” he says. “You’ll need it for your own head later. You lost an awful lot of blood.” Schofield gives Blake a wry look. _As if you haven’t yourself._

Blake spots the dark patch of acid on the floorboards, and winces in sympathy. “Are you alright, Sco?”

“Yes.” Schofield says quietly, clenching his jaw against the incessant pain in the hollow where his skull meets his neck. “It’s happened before. I’ll be fine.” He scrubs away the lingering bile on his chin against his sleeve.

Blake does not look convinced, but says nothing more. He just reaches for Schofield’s hand silently, squeezing tight. Schofield accepts the quiet sympathy for what it is. 

The flare fades, plunging them into darkness again. The silence stretches, their clasped hands their only point of reference in the gloom.

In the distance, a church bell tolls. 

Schofield goes very still. Blake’s fingers tighten painfully in his. They count.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

_Five._

They wait with bated breath. No more. 

“It’s nearly morning,” Blake says, voice tight with dawning panic. “We won’t make it in time – ”

Schofield reaches for Blake’s shoulders in the darkness, holding him steady. “Blake.” he says. “We’ve lost a lot of time, but we can still make it. I’ve made it before.”

HISS-SNAP. The yellow-white light washes over Blake’s face, pale with anxiety.

Schofield struggles up to his knees. “Come on,” he says, slipping under Blake’s arm. “On three.” He feels Blake brace against him in tense expectation. “One, two, three – ”

Blake levers himself up on his good leg with a ghastly cry of pain. Schofield shudders. For a moment, the hard edges of the artificial light crumble into overcast grey – the mud of the farmhouse yard slips under their feet as Schofield heaves Blake up, blood slick under his fingers, Blake screaming for him to stop –

“Sco?” Blake, from next to Schofield’s ear, wavering but upright against Schofield’s shoulder. “You with me?”

Schofield inhales sharply, blinking the memory away. “I’m here.” He breathes in, breathes out. “I’m with you, Blake.”

They stumble together towards the open door. The stairs descend into the darkness, a downward spiral into hell. 

Blake lets out a sharp cry on the first step. He swears under his breath. “Bloody stairs. It’s worse going down.” Schofield nods in grim agreement. His ribs and right arm twinge in ghostly memory. 

In the last remnants of the flare’s light, Schofield draws Blake in closer, tries to bear as much of Blake’s weight as he can. Their descent is a slow, painful struggle. 

They pause at the lock house doorway. Blake’s breathing comes in jagged, hiccupping gasps. Schofield’s head continues to pound, a maddening crimson drumbeat at the back of his neck. He swallows back yet another wave of bile. “Blake,” he says, trying to focus.

“Yeah?” Blake pants, eyes glazed over with pain.

“You need to breathe from your stomach. I know it hurts, but if you don’t breathe deeply you’ll just keel over. And I don’t think I can carry you.”

Blake tries to crack a smile. It comes out more like a grimace. “Are you saying I’m fat, Sco?” His face is covered in a sheen of sweat, cold and metallic in the light of the flare. 

A corner of Schofield’s mouth lifts wryly. “Ready?”

They look out into the ruins of Écoust, pressed shoulder to shoulder, two silhouettes framed in the cool shadow of the arched doorway against the faint glow of distant flame. The night sky is overcast, the full moon hidden in the last remnants of the lingering storm. A small mercy. 

Blake nods against Schofield’s cheek. “Let’s go.”

They stumble out over the cobblestones, counting down the seconds until the next flare in unerring tandem. Without a word, they cut a straight line together across the square and towards the cover of a sharp overhang. 

They move as one, Schofield stooped under Blake’s arm, pressed close. Schofield is bound to Blake, as Blake is bound to Schofield, by memory, by experience, by sheer will. The muted thud of their racing heartbeats is the same. The length of their stride is the same. Their muted desperation is the same. 

HISS-SNAP.

They slip under a wrought iron gate and into a tiny pool of darkness just as the next flare cracks into the air.

In the shadows, Schofield readjusts his grip on Blake. He shifts his head against Blake’s, a silent question. _You alright?_ Blake nods, a tacit reply. 

The flare dies. They move again, feet dragging in loose rubble, pained breaths puncturing the deadly quiet. They press against a crumbling stone wall, tucked together against the scant cover.

HISS-SNAP.

Whispering shadows flicker up and down the street, edged in ghastly white light, ghosting over their boot tips. Blake’s hold on Schofield’s jacket tightens. Schofield covers Blake’s trembling hand with his own. 

The flare burns, and burns. When it dies, it does so with a faint gust of wind, a sighing exhale past Schofield’s ear. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. 

They move again, stumbling from cover to cover towards the distant crackling of the burning church. Flares spark up again and again into the night sky, each one sending cold shivers down their spines. 

At long last, they reach the central square. The burning church is a living pyre, flames ribboning up into the night. The unsettling gloom of the arched colonnade washes over Schofield as he drags Blake into its shadow. 

In the glow of the fire, it is obvious to Schofield that Blake is in agony. Blake’s eyes are half-lidded, his face covered in a bright sheen of sweat. Schofield casts a quick glance down at Blake’s right leg and hisses through his teeth. The bandage is drenched through with fresh blood, dripping round crimson coins on the broken cobblestones. The wound must have reopened. 

Schofield tries to take even more of Blake’s limp weight, but his shoulder screams in protest and his head swims. He grunts with desperate effort, trying to lever his arm further around Blake.

Blake’s head lolls against Schofield’s shoulder for a moment, but Blake jerks himself awake with a shake of his head. “-s alright, Sco,” he mumbles, his words beginning to slur. “I can – s’and – by m’self.”

“Nearly there,” Schofield grinds out. He doesn’t know if he’s talking to himself or to Blake. The world blurs into one long corridor of pain. Schofield veers left, dragging them both down the covered arcade, eyes straining for the wooden grating marking the entrance to the underground basement. 

They make painfully slow progress. Schofield’s heart thunders against his ribs in crippling urgency. He casts a look over his shoulder at the edge of the burning church behind them.

A dim outline of a figure wreathed in smoke, edging closer across the square. Schofield curses under his breath. 

Blake blinks at the sound, eyes focusing for a moment. “Sco?

Schofield shakes his head, breathless. “We need to move. We need to move now – ”

Blake understands. He doesn’t look behind him, but a grim terror comes over his face. He lifts his sleeve to his lips and bites down hard into the wool. He nods once, eyes flinty in the orange light. 

Schofield twists white fingers into Blake’s jacket and heaves with all his might. Blake goes rigid, his screams muffled into his arm with every halting step. 

Schofield can hardly bear the sound. He swallows back nausea at the back of his throat and drags Blake mercilessly forward, step after shrieking step. Schofield’s eyes are trained deliberately forward, away from Blake – 

There! The wooden slats, and the dark doorway down to the basement just a half-dozen steps further – 

“Hallo? Wer ist da?” The sound of booted feet rounding the corner behind them.

Schofield yanks Blake bodily into the doorway. They tumble down the steps to the basement with a clatter, landing in a painful heap at the base of the stairs. 

Schofield’s head slams onto the floor. Blackness overwhelms his vision for an instant. Blake’s sleeve slips out from between his teeth in the jumble of limbs. Blake lets out a short, agonised yell as his weight slams onto his bad leg. 

Schofield fights the black spots dancing in his eyes and rolls away from the bottom of the stairs. He drags Blake after him, drawing Blake’s head towards his chest, muffling Blake’s cries of pain into his jacket. Schofield tries not to throw up again. He holds Blake close.

Thin bars of light stream over them through the wooden slats above. “Weber, bist du das?” The slatted light shutters as a dark figure moves across the grating at street level. 

Blake’s hands twine tightly into Schofield’s jerkin as he struggles to stifle little noises of pain. Schofield tucks Blake in under his chin and makes a low hushing noise, eyes wide and wild as he stares up through the cracks in the grating. His head pounds. The dark outline of the German soldier looms across his face.

The figure moves past the wooden slats. It stops outside the doorway, its long shadow flickering down the stairs, mere inches from where Blake’s head is pressed into Schofield’s shoulder. 

“Mein Gott, ich seh schon gespenster...” The words sound horribly close. The German pauses for a long moment, a black shape silhouetted in the dim light of the doorway. Schofield doesn’t dare breathe.

The German turns and trudges back up the street, boots clacking on the cobblestones.

Schofield releases a long breath of relief into the top of Blake’s head. In his grip, Blake starts trembling. Schofield doesn’t know if it is from pain or adrenaline. It might be both. He struggles to sit up, reaching into his jacket for the last of his bandages. Blake’s head slides off Schofield’s arm and thuds limply on the ground. Schofield bites his lip. If he doesn’t bind Blake’s leg soon, Blake is going to bleed out. The thought chills him to the bone.

In the darkness, Schofield makes quick work of the sodden strips on Blake’s leg, ripping his spare bandages in half lengthwise with his teeth and binding the leg afresh as tightly as he dares. As he pulls at the knot with bloodied fingers, Blake jerks with a gasp of pain. “Sco?” The word is a bare croak in the gloom.

“I’m here.”

Blake answers with a muffled groan. “We – Lauri’s?”

“Yes.”

Blake is silent for a long moment. “I’m bloody thirsty.” His voice sounds like sandpaper.

Schofield presses his lips tightly together. Not a good sign. “Hush. Stay still,” he says.

A soft noise, from deeper in the basement. 

Schofield raises his head and glimpses pale skin and a ratty dress. He smiles tiredly. “Lauri. We won’t hurt you. Venez ici.” He extends his hand gently, palm out.

A rustle of cloth. The girl tiptoes forward, wary. She stops a few paces away, half hidden in the darkness. “Comment savez-vous que mon nom est Lauri?” 

Schofield is so tired. A wild grief rises in his throat. “I just know, Lauri. We won’t harm you. Come.”

Lauri creeps into the dim light. Her face is streaked with dirt, eyes wide. “Qui êtes vous? Who – you?”

“It doesn’t matter. Here – take this.” Schofield reaches into his pack for his canteen, still cool to the touch. A hand taps his elbow. Schofield looks down. 

Blake looks up at him, eyes a little clearer. He is holding his own canteen. “Here, Sco,” he says in a broken rasp, smiling despite the pain.

Schofield rises to his knees and holds out the two canteens to Lauri. She stares at him, confused. He smiles reassuringly. “Milk. Lait. For the baby.”

Lauri’s eyes glimmer in astonishment. She straightens, fear forgotten, and crosses to Schofield in two quick strides. She plucks a canteen out of his hand and uncaps it, holding it to her nose. “Mon Dieu,” she says, eyes closing in relief. “Mon Dieu,” she repeats, swaying on the spot. She sinks to the ground in front of Schofield and buries her face in her hands. 

Schofield unslings his pack, rummaging for his provisions. He does the same in Blake’s pack. He tips the food at Lauri’s feet. “Here, take this too,” he says. 

Lauri raises her head from her hands. Her eyes are wet. She looks straight at Schofield, unblinking. Lauri swallows, her voice rough with wonder. “Êtes-vous des anges? An-gels?”

Schofield shakes his head. 

“Mais comment est-ce possible?” Lauri clasps her hands. “J'ai prié Dieu – et vous, et vous – Oh! Rendre gloire à Dieu.” She says, voice breaking. Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears.

Schofield sees Lauri’s gaze drift towards Blake. Blake is still on the ground, hair plastered to his face with cold sweat, but he grins sunnily up at her. Lauri frowns. “Il n'a pas l'air bien.” Her eyes flick up to the bandage around Schofield’s head. “Vous aussi.” She straightens. “Je vais t'apporter de l'eau. Wat-er.” Lauri turns quickly on her heel and disappears deeper into the basement.

Schofield shifts, hooking his fingers around Blake’s jerkin and heaving him up so he is sitting upright, leaning against Schofield’s shoulder. “Blake. How are you doing?” he asks in a low voice.

“Peachy.”

“Blake.”

Blake is quiet for a moment against Schofield’s arm. “I’ve had better days. Leg hurts like hell, but at least I’m thinking clearly now. Still bloody thirsty though. How’s your head?”

Schofield tries not to think about the blinding pulse at the back of his neck and the slow fuzziness creeping at the edges of his vision. “Well enough.”

“Sco.”

“Oh, fine. It effing hurts.” 

Schofield feels Blake smile against his shoulder. 

Lauri comes back with a small pail of water and a ladle in hand. She plops the bucket down next to Blake and raises the ladle to his lips. Schofield watches Blake carefully. It is telling that Blake lets her do this instead of grasping the ladle himself. Blake takes huge, desperate gulps, water running down his chin. When he is finished, Lauri turns to Schofield. He smiles his thanks and takes the ladle from her. The water tastes of iron and sulphur and smoke, but he is glad for it nonetheless.

“Merci,” Schofield says quietly. 

Blake stirs. “Thanks Lauri.” His voice sounds clearer, stronger. 

Lauri nods, eyes glittering with a strange softness. She looks at them like she is unsure whether they are human or fey or faerie.

Schofield looks down at Blake. “We could rest for a moment. You need it.”

Blake stiffens, shakes his head. “We’ve got no time, Sco. We’ve got to – Joe needs me.”

“We could afford to stay a few minutes – ”

“No.” Blake says with rigid finality, lifting his head away from Schofield. His voice is abrupt, harsh. “We have to go now. He’s not _your_ brother.”

A beat. “Yes, Blake,” Schofield says, his voice oddly hollow. “He’s also not my best friend.”

Blake shrinks back down against Schofield’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he says in a very small voice. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry, Sco.” 

“It’s alright.” Schofield is silent for a moment. “Let’s go, Blake.”

Schofield eases Blake off his shoulder and once more slings Blake’s arm around the top of his shoulders. Lauri darts forward and grasps Blake’s other arm. Schofield gives her a grateful nod. “On three. One, two, three – ”

Blake bites off a muffled cry as he is heaved bodily to his feet. His face loses what little colour it had regained. As Schofield straightens, he is hit with a sudden and violent wave of dizziness. An immense pressure builds in his temples.

“Messieurs, restez. Reste ici.” Lauri’s voice sounds very close. Schofield blinks black spots out of his eyes, and when the darkness clears, Blake and Lauri’s faces stay blurred at the edges. 

Lauri is right in front of Blake and Schofield, a small hand on each of their shoulders. Belatedly, Schofield realises they are swaying dangerously on their feet. Lauri is propping the two men up, her tiny figure straining against their combined weight. She speaks again, more insistently this time. “Stay.” Her gaze is imploring. “Stay.”

With effort, Schofield steadies himself. Next to him, he feels Blake straighten and attempt to bear weight on his good leg. He opens his mouth to reply, but Blake speaks first. “Sorry Lauri, we’ve got to go.” 

A fire kindles in Lauri’s eyes – 

A soft snuffling from deeper within the basement. A tiny wail.

Lauri softens, looking over her shoulder towards the soft glow of the fireplace. She takes a half-step inside, then pauses and looks back at the two men. A bar of light falls on her face through the basement grating. Her eyes are conflicted. 

The baby continues to fuss in the other room. Schofield is suddenly aware of his tin, warm against his chest. He swallows past the lump in his throat. “Go to her,” he says. “We’ll be fine.”

Lauri presses her lips tightly together, as if the words are pressing against her teeth, hammering to be let out. She nods. “Adieu,” she says.

There is so much left unsaid. The weight of it lies thick and heavy between them, the pages of a book no one will ever read. 

Schofield tightens his hold on Blake, even as Blake’s fingers wind tightly into Schofield’s jacket. They struggle up the stairs, one at a time, until their boots once more stumble on broken cobblestones. They do not look back.

The chill of the night envelops them once more. Blake shivers against Schofield’s side, craning his head at the dark clouds overhead. “At least there’s no bloody moon this time round, eh, Sco?” Blake says with forced cheer. His eyes are glossed over with pain. Schofield can hear the strain in his voice.

“You’re doing very well, Blake,” Schofield says quietly. “Not far now.” 

Blake closes his eyes briefly against Schofield’s shoulder. When he opens them again, they are red-rimmed. 

The street is littered with collapsed rubble and deep potholes. They take step after stumbling step in the darkness, leaning into each other, staying close to the shadowed eaves of the ruined buildings. 

Ahead, a too-familiar crossroads. Without a word, they veer across the street, to the right, towards the river. They creep forward in the long shadows, the murk wrapping around them, clinging like dirt to their skin. The only noise is the muted sound of their boots slipping on the cobblestones, and Blake’s rasping breaths.

The hairs on the back of Schofield’s neck stand on end. Schofield cannot quite quash a feeling of rising anxiety. Something feels different. He can’t figure out exactly what it is, but an unsettling sensation crawls over his spine. He casts a wild-eyed stare up the street and back over his shoulder. Nothing. Just gloom.

“Blake,” Schofield murmurs out of the side of his mouth.

Blake grunts. “Hmmpf?” 

“Have we forgotten anything? Something doesn’t feel right. It feels different from last time.”

Blake gasps out a reply in between each panting breath. “There’s – no moon – if that’s – what you’re – thinking about.”

Schofield shakes his head, looking over his shoulder again. “No, that isn’t it.” He frowns suddenly. “Why haven’t there been any flares?”

“Dunno.” Blake says. Sweat drips into his eyes and he blinks, shaking his head with a wince. “Wouldn’t – question – a stroke of – good luck.”

Schofield is not so sure. He presses his lips together, eyes darting down the street, trying to force his vision to focus. His thoughts whirl in the midst of the incessant pounding in his head. By his estimation, they are about a half-hour ahead of his first run through Écoust, the first time, without Blake. It means that alleyway by the schoolhouse should still be empty. The two German soldiers will still be in the schoolhouse building itself, one punch-drunk, the other too young to die. 

Schofield looks up. On the far horizon to the east, the sky is beginning to lighten, a royal blue rim creeping up towards dusky velvet. They have about a quarter of an hour of true darkness left. Just enough time to get to the bridge, if only barely. It should be alright. 

BANG.

Schofield snaps his gaze back down, eyes wild. 

A dozen paces ahead, the schoolhouse door swings wide open, creaking on its hinges. The young German soldier steps out, hefting a small crate of ammunition. Light-shell rocket flares. 

Blake and Schofield freeze up like deer in the crosshairs of a hunting rifle. 

Schofield yanks Blake into a tiny pool of shadow against a high brick wall, pushing Blake down onto the cobblestones. The alleyway is dark, but narrow. There is no real cover. A burning dread rises in Schofield’s throat. Blake’s hand is in his, gripping tight. 

The young soldier has not spotted them yet. From within the schoolhouse, an older, slurring voice sounds. “Schnell Baumer, ich öffne noch einen Brandy wenn du zurück bist.” 

Baumer pauses, looks back over his shoulder. “Ja.” The glow of the brazier washes over his blond hair from inside the schoolhouse. He looks very young.

Schofield knows what he has to do. As every thud of his heart screams in horrified denial, he slips his arm out from under Blake’s shoulder and leans in to hiss a sharp command. “Stay here.” 

“Sco – “

“ _Stay._ ”

Schofield’s hand goes to his side and draws his bayonet silently from its sheath. Fifteen inches of gleaming metal. He does not attach it to his rifle – no time, too much movement – but holds it tucked behind him so the soft firelight does not reflect off the new, oiled blade. 

Baumer turns away from the door. His rifle is slung carelessly over one shoulder, the mark of a man not long used to soldiering. Blake had his rifle strapped like that until Schofield had set it to rights – 

– Schofield pushes the thought violently away. Focus. Blake is behind him, defenceless. Not in front of him. 

Schofield waits, still and crouched, his gaze fixed intently on Baumer – the young man – the German. He waits until the German steps out from the triangle of firelight spilling out of the doorway – 

Schofield springs out of the shadows. He goes for the German’s neck, the blade flashing in his right hand. 

The German flinches backward – drops the crate – the rocket shells clatter over the cobblestones, rolling under their feet – Schofield’s bayonet whispers past the German’s throat, nicks the skin – the German opens his mouth to cry out, eyes wide in frantic terror – Schofield slams the German into the brick wall, his left hand clapping over the man’s mouth, muffling his screams – 

“Baumer?” A garbled call from within the schoolhouse.

Schofield teeth are bared as he bears his weight down on the German, the blade in his hand driving towards exposed flesh. The German’s eyes are wide in frantic terror, both hands scrabbling at where Schofield’s fist is clenched around the hilt of the bayonet. He thrashes and struggles like a wild animal. The tip of the blade glows orange in the faint firelight, inching down towards the bloodshot whites of the German’s eyes – 

– the German opens his mouth under Schofield’s left hand and sinks his incisors deep into Schofield’s palm. Schofield bites back a cry – blood runs out from between his fingers and down the German’s clenched jaw, but Schofield grits his teeth and keeps his hand clamped there.

The German’s eyes dart upwards to the bloodied bandage on Schofield’s forehead – the man lets go of the butt of the bayonet with one hand and reaches around to the back of Schofield’s head, digging his fingers savagely into the wettest part of the bandage – 

– Schofield’s field of vision shutters as a horrific starburst of pain explodes from the back of his head. The bayonet tumbles out of his suddenly loose fingers as he reaches back on reflex, trying to wrench the man’s clawed fingers off his wound – a strangled gasp hisses out through his teeth – 

The German pushes him away – Schofield crumples to one knee, his vision flickering – the bayonet strikes the cobblestones with a metallic clang. Schofield scrambles back into the darkness, half-blind, head throbbing with nausea. The German is a looming shape above him –

Warm liquid splatters across Schofield’s face. 

Schofield opens his mouth and gasps in a breath that tastes of rust and death. When his eyes finally clear, he goes very still.

The German is flat on the ground. Blake is hunched over him. 

The bayonet has been driven straight through the German’s throat. Blake’s hand is still around the hilt. 

Schofield looks on in dazed horror. He gets to his feet shakily and stumbles over. He reaches out surprisingly steady hands and prises Blake’s fingers from the bayonet. The blade stays upright, embedded in the German’s windpipe. Schofield loops his arms under Blake’s shoulders, dragging him off the German. The movement must have jostled Blake’s leg, but Blake is pale and staring and makes no noise.

A gurgling rattle bubbles up from the young man’s mouth. His eyes are large and childlike, filled with fear. His lips form a noiseless word. Mama. 

Schofield watches as the light drains out of Baumer’s eyes. 

Schofield rips his eyes from the sight and turns to Blake. Blake’s hands and front are covered with blood. Schofield looks for tell-tale trembling, but sees none. Blake does not shake. He just sits there, silent, unmoving, pale as death.

From the inside of the schoolhouse, a rustle. “Baumer?” The other German soldier.

Schofield crouches under Blake’s arm and heaves him up with a strength he does not know he possesses. His head thunders with pain. “Come, Blake,” he says, low and urgent.

Blake does not respond. He is still staring.

Schofield’s eyes flick towards the open door of the schoolhouse. No time. He changes his voice, to one he uses when addressing wayward Privates – short, sharp, commanding. “Come!”

Blake blinks, responding instinctively to the order. He takes some of his own weight, standing straighter.

Schofield turns and stumbles them both around the patch of light from the doorway, hugging the shadows. He fixes his eyes on the end of the street, dragging Blake beside him with single-minded determination. He expects a shout to sound out behind them at any moment. Cold memory echoes in the slowly lightening sky above them, the chill wind whispering past his ear. _Engländer! Engländer!_

They turn the corner into a tiny alleyway, too narrow for the pre-dawn light to filter down into the darknness. Schofield comes to an abrupt stop. It is so sudden that Blake stumbles and nearly falls over. 

Schofield takes a half-step forward and wraps his arms around Blake without a word. Blake just stands there, still and rigid as a statue, staring straight over Schofield’s shoulder at the wall, clenching his bloody hands tight and away from his body, away from Schofield. 

Schofield rests a hand in Blake’s hair. He stays silent for a moment more, then says very quietly, “Thank you, Blake.” He is nearly speaking into Blake’s ear. A pause. “I’m so sorry.” Schofield closes his eyes. He puts his whole heart into the words, but he knows they aren’t enough to bear the weight. Nothing is.

Blake is still silent and unyielding in Schofield’s hold. Schofield waits, heart in his mouth. He is afraid of something he cannot name.

A long, long moment passes. 

Blake drops his head onto Schofield’s shoulder soundlessly. Schofield feels a shudder go through Blake, from the base of Blake’s spine up to the crown of his head. Blake’s arms slowly come up around Schofield. His wrists dig into the back of Schofield’s jacket, but his hands are still clawed and clenched away. 

Schofield releases a long, slow breath. “It’s alright,” he says. “It’ll come off in the river.” 

Blake doesn’t reply. He burrows closer. Schofield’s hand is still in Blake’s hair. His touch is gentle, and he cards his fingers through with calm, sure strokes. Schofield tries not to think of the last time his hands were covered in blood and washed clean in the river.

Somewhere behind them, a cry of alarm rises into the night air. 

Blake ducks in Schofield’s arms instinctively, shoulders coming up around his ears. Schofield hushes him. “It’s alright. They haven’t spotted us. Let’s go.” He ducks back under Blake’s arm.

At the end of the alleyway is a familiar flight of stone steps. They make their faltering way down them and turn to face a long, knife-straight road. Above them, the arc of the sky is now a deep cerulean blue. In the far distance, the pale half-light reflects faintly off the raised stones of the arched bridge. 

Schofield fixes his gaze on that small glimmer of light like a starved wolf. So close. He feels Blake tense against his side, and knows that Blake is staring too. Under the bridge, invisible from this distance, are the churning rapids of the river. Both of them know that there will be a tiny wooden rowboat bobbing on the water, tied to a short jetty. And Blake still has his new bayonet. As for where Schofield’s own bayonet is – he clamps down savagely on the thought.

“We can make it,” Schofield says, with more certainty than he feels. Blake nods tightly. 

They struggle on together. 

The street seems impossibly long. Long minutes pass, the seconds dragging by, the air thick with tension. Blake says nothing more, an almost manic gleam in his dark eyes as he drags his wounded leg after him, gasping ragged breaths. Schofield swallows down fresh bile with every step, the pain in the back of his head driving down his neck and into his shoulders, vicious and ceaseless. His eyes are trained on the end of the street, but the image of the bridge in the distance seems to flicker and distort, sometimes dividing into two, sometimes melding back into one. It is disorienting. He tries to blink the effect away, but it stubbornly resists his efforts.

At long last, the paved street gives way to larger blocks of stone as Blake and Schofield approach the bridge. Below, the river thunders past, a roaring mass of black, rushing pitch. The sound sends an involuntary shiver down Schofield’s spine. Twice the waters had closed over his head, the lid of an airless coffin sinking down into the dark.

Blake notices, and although he doesn’t speak, he tilts his head down onto Schofield’s shoulder, a brief, comforting touch. _I’m here._ Schofield swallows.

They begin their grim ascent to the crown of the bridge. Blake mutters a low curse at the steep incline. At the zenith of the stone arch, they pause for a moment to catch their breath. It is very nearly dawn.

HISS-SNAP.

A flare! Dawn turns into the noonday sun. Schofield has enough time to flinch in horror –

– “ENGLÄNDER!” 

The cry sounds out from behind them, from a high rooftop.

Schofield tightens his grip on Blake’s shoulders and throws them forward down the slope of the bridge. Blake screams in pain as his leg catches on loose rubble. He goes down – Schofield catches him and heaves him up with a strangled grunt.

CRACK.

The shot glances off where Blake was an instant ago, sending stone fragments ripping past their boots. Schofield grits his teeth and heaves Blake forward with all his might, lurching desperately towards the far bank.

CRACK – CRACK.

Two almost simultaneous shots, one from street level and another from a sniper on a roof. One ricochets off stone, whizzing a hairsbreadth from Schofield’s ducked head – the other slices through a strap of Blake’s webbing, sending his torch clattering onto the ground.

“Come on!” Schofield grinds out, tasting blood – he has bitten his tongue. He pulls at Blake’s arms. 

“I can’t – ” Blake gasps, lips bloodless. “I can’t –” He stumbles, nearly goes down. 

Schofield whips around on the spot and digs his fingers frantically into the straps of Blake’s pack and webbing. “Drop it – drop the weight,” he says. Blake loosens the bindings in a half-daze, his fumbling fingers tugging at his shoulders. Schofield also sheds his own pack, scrambling to undo his webbing. He snatches up Blake’s bayonet from the ground –

CRACK.

The bullet slices past Schofield’s cheek, passing so close to his ear that it sears a blistered burn across raw skin. Schofield cries out in pain, clapping a hand to the side of his face. 

“Sco!” Blake screams in alarm. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine – go go GO – ”

They stagger down the last stretch of the bridge, the wind pressing down on the exposed backs of their sweat-soaked jackets. They expect the cold burn of a bullet striking at any moment –

– a painful scramble around the side of the bridge, their stumbling figures casting long shadows in the dawn light – to the small wooden jetty, the rowboat dipping up and down in the water, tied to the jetty by a length of blackened rope –

CRACK.

The shot slices into the wooden planks at their feet, sending a spray of water slapping upwards –

Schofield all but throws Blake into the tiny rowboat. Blake tumbles against the bottom of the boat, the hull slapping the surface of the water. In the dawn light, the long bayonet in Schofield’s hand flashes once as he brings it down on the knotted rope with all his strength – 

– it slices through so smoothly he almost stabs himself in the thigh. 

CRACK.

Schofield ducks as the bullet whistles past his head. The boat is already beginning to drift downriver in the current, the gap between it and the jetty widening rapidly. Blake struggles to sit up in the boat, straining desperately to reach Schofield. “SCO! JUMP!” he shouts. 

Schofield lets the bayonet drop from his hand. He leaps wildly, arms flailing out –

CRACK.

The shot punches into the water an inch from Blake’s outstretched hand – and Schofield slams into the boat next to Blake, tipping the wooden lip below the waterline. The freezing spray splashes up over them in a glittering veil.

The river seizes hold of the rickety boat and throws them into the seething morass of water and white foam. Schofield glances over his shoulder – the bridge is already some distance away, the crack of the rifle shots fading far into the distance. The sound of the bullets is eaten up by the all-consuming roar of the river.

Schofield twists back round to face Blake. “Hold on! He shouts. Blake’s eyes are wide and terrified, his knuckles white where he hangs on to the edges of the boat. 

The rowboat is built for one man in calm waters, and they are two in a watery hell. The powerful current whirls them in a dizzying spin, tearing at the thin planks under their feet with gnashing teeth. 

Schofield hunches low over the centre of the boat, his arms trembling with tension as the river flings them about like a child’s plaything. Wave after wave of ice-cold water drenches them to the bone.

A dark shape looms out of the water – a boulder, twice as high as the top of their hunched heads – 

Blake screams, raw and terrified, at the solid wall of death bearing down on them – 

The current twists, and the slip past on a whirling vortex down and away. Blake gasps out out a sob of relief that is quickly ripped away by the howl of the water. 

The boulders keep on coming, each one a reaper’s cloak blacking out half the sky. Each time the boat scrapes by with a hairsbreadth to spare, spinning madly on the current.

Schofield finds himself oddly calm in the midst of the chaos. The sound of the thundering water fades away into a muted rumble. He hears the thudding of his heart and his own sawing breaths as if in an echoing chamber. 

An odd thought comes into Schofield’s mind, dreamlike from his childhood lessons. The Greek warrior Odysseus, traveling home on the sea. A journey ten years long. Trial after endless trial, yearning for his wife and child. Schofield’s vision blurs rapidly. Each boulder becomes a row of jagged teeth jutting out from the churning surface. Monsters on the water. 

_Scylla._

And where lies Scylla, there also lies _Charybdis_. 

The waterfall.

Schofield is slammed out of his reverie. He sucks in a sharp breath. “Blake!” he yells over the sound of the roaring spray. “We’ve got to get to the bank now!” 

Blake is wild-eyed, his breaths coming hard and fast, but he nods. He reaches into the swirling water at the bottom of the boat and scrabbles for an oar. “Here, Sco!” he shouts back, shoving it into Schofield’s hands. He plunges his hands into the water again, coming back up with the other oar. 

In the pale morning light, the craggy rocks of the riverbank whirl past them at a dizzying speed, lurching closer then farther again as the boat is smashed back and forth by the current. Two score yards ahead of them, the river disappears into empty space, a roaring abyss of white foam and spray. Schofield glimpses the edge of the world.

Schofield thrusts the oar deep into the river, trying to propel the tiny boat towards the left riverbank – 

– the water opens its glistening maw and rips the length of wood out of Schofield’s hands, nearly dislocating the fingers of his left hand. 

Schofield cries out in pain, curling over his hand. The boat lurches over a jutting rock right at that moment. Without a grip on the sides of the boat, Schofield loses his balance and lurches sideways, the water rushing up to meet him – 

“SCO!” Blake screams. He catches the front of Schofield’s jacket and flings him back into the boat. Schofield reels at the motion, head spinning in agony. He doubles over and throws up in the pool of river water in the hull. Half of it ends up in Blake’s lap, hunched together as they are in the tiny boat.

Blake doesn’t even flinch. He holds their one remaining oar aloft with white-knuckled hands, casting about desperately for another way to reach the riverbank. Schofield raises his head dazedly. 

Another boulder rises up out of the water, a solid black wall towering over them as the thunder of the waterfall drums against their ears –

“AAAAAH!” Blake screams in desperate effort, driving the end of the oar into the boulder with a resounding CRACK. The oar fractures in Blake’s hands. Splinters fly across Blake’s face, reflected in the almost frenzied gleam in his eyes.

The momentum throws the boat sideways. The hull grinds up against sharp stones underwater just before the lip of the waterfall, teetering right up to the rocky bank. With a resounding groan, the planks finally split under Blake and Schofield’s feet.

The water swallows them whole. 

Schofield’s right hand closes on Blake’s collar. If they are to die they will damn well die together, Schofield thinks fiercely – Blake’s scream is lost in the rumble of the current – Schofield lashes out with his left hand, flailing for something, anything – 

Schofield’s hand closes on rough bark. His fingers tighten into a claw, nails ripping into the wood. Blake’s collar is still in his right hand. With a savage jerk, the current snaps them taut, like fish flopping on a line. The tension rips at Schofield’s shoulders, tearing at his joints. 

Schofield screams underwater, utterly blind. He screams and screams, dragging himself towards his left hand with inhuman strength, right arm shrieking with Blake’s limp weight. The nails of his left hand begin to rip away, digging into the bark – 

Schofield’s head breaks the water. His hand is caught in a downed log, the driftwood trapped between a row of jagged stones leading up to the riverbank. Schofield chokes and gags, sobbing with the effort as he makes one last heave and flings Blake onto the rocks next to him, their legs still half submerged in the water. 

Schofield goes limp on the rocks, utterly spent. He releases his death grip on the piece of wood. Half his nails come off in the log. Schofield whimpers. He lies there, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded. The jagged stones dig painfully into his ribs and side.

Blake. Check on Blake. Schofield forces his eyes open and looks down to where his right hand is still gripped in Blake’s collar.

Blake is eerily still, his drenched hair plastered to his pale face. 

No. Schofield can’t take it. He can’t. 

Schofield releases Blake’s collar and touches the back of his trembling fingers to Blake’s neck. Blake is cold. Schofield chokes. Please. _Please_ – 

There’s a flicker under Schofield’s fingers –

– Blake jolts awake with a convulsive shudder, rolling onto his side towards Schofield and hacking up river water. He groans, breathing harsh. “Sco?” he mumbles, voice raw. 

Oh. Oh. Schofield doesn’t answer. He buries his face into his arm and weeps. He weeps great racking sobs of pain and relief and pure exhaustion. He wants to sleep. He wants his head to stop hurting. He wants to be held. He wants his wife, his daughters. He wants home. 

He wants, he wants, he wants. He has no words even to pray with. He seizes hold of the hem of God’s robes and _aches_. 

He hears the rough scrape of cloth over the rocks. The soft touch of a hand across the curve of his face, over the soaked bandage at his temples. The hand comes to a rest on the back of his neck and draws him in close, until he is half-buried in an embrace. Blake. Schofield shakes silently in Blake’s arms, each trembling breath misting against the front of Blake’s jacket. His head still hurts, and he is still soul-weary. 

But Blake holds him.

With some effort, Schofield manages to move his right arm to flop over Blake and wrap around his back. He knows Blake needs to be held too. Schofield feels Blake exhale shakily into the top of his head. 

They lie there together, just breathing. The icy coldness of the river is starting to become distant. Schofield’s limbs are lead-lined, his head clouded over with fog. Everything begins to slow. He can barely keep his eyes open. He is sinking into quiet warmth. It reminds him of the hearth at home. 

Someone is shaking his shoulder. It radiates pain up his neck and into the back of his head. He groans. 

“–co. We have to move. Sco, wake up. SCO!”

SLAP. A stinging pain across his cheek. 

Schofield blinks open his eyes. Blake’s face swims blearily into view. There are two Blakes, their fuzzy outlines overlapping. Schofield frowns. That’s new. He’s not sure he can handle two Blakes. One is enough of a handful. 

“Sco, come on. We can’t stay here. We’ve got to keep moving, there’s no time.” Blake’s voice is very close, tinged with exhausted desperation. “I need you to stay with me.”

That gets through to Schofield. He struggles to sit up, arms shaking under his weight. 

The world spins. “I’m with – you, Blake,” he mumbles, slurring over the words. He bites his lip. His brows furrow as he tries to focus. “I'm with you,” he says again, this time a little clearer.

Schofield raises his head wearily. He blinks, trying to clear his vision. Something still feels off. Everything is blurred at the edges, and the colours are too sharp. He looks around them. They are on a small outcropping of half-submerged rock, a dozen yards to the side of the waterfall’s edge. By some miracle, the current and Blake’s wild shove against the last boulder must have pushed the boat aground. 

Next to Schofield, Blake is half-propped up on his elbows, trying to lever his back off the ground. He’s gone pasty white with the effort, breathing harshly through gritted teeth. 

Schofield reaches down jerkily – his joints are stiff and rubbery – and loops his arm around Blake’s shoulders. “How’s the leg?” he says as he braces against Blake, wincing at the thick clump of bandages on Blake’s right thigh, stained black with grime and blood. 

Blake shakes his head against Schofield’s. “Can’t feel it, really,” he says. “Stopped hurting a while ago.” Both of them know that isn’t good. Schofield says nothing. Blake doesn’t crack a joke. 

They tighten their grip on each other and stand with a groan of effort, swaying on the spot.

Schofield looks up at the rapidly-lightening sky. Time is running out. He looks back down at the treeline, where the riverbank meets the wood. Blake shifts against his shoulder. “Come on,” Blake says, voice a bare croak. “Together.”

“Yes,” Schofield says, hoarse. “Together.”

The path beside the waterfall is steep and sloping, a tangled mass of branches and moss-covered roots. Blake and Schofield stumble down together, lurching on their feet like punch-drunk men. More than once, they trip and Blake and puts his weight on his bad leg. Schofield apologises, the words thick and cotton-like in his mouth, his fingers twining into Blake’s jacket. Blake just shakes his head. “Doesn’t hurt,” he mumbles. 

Schofield is oddly lightheaded. He moves as if in a dream, swimming through slow treacle, if treacle were weightless. Shafts of dawn light stream through rustling leaves overhead, golden, ephemeral. He can feel every breath that Blake takes against him, Blake’s ribs straining through his wool jacket against Schofield’s side. There are birds in the trees, he can hear their song. You are very nearly there, they sing. Soon. Soon.

The ground levels out into soft grass. Their boots leave deep marks on the loamy soil and fallen leaves as they stumble forward. The trees come denser now. 

Croisilles Wood.

Schofield’s head lolls on his neck as he looks up at their rustling foliage. The light filters through, casting warm, dappled patterns on Blake’s pale face. Schofield can see the strain pulling at the lines of Blake’s expression, his muted desperation. 

The sight jars Schofield. The world seems to sharpen a little. 

Ahead, the wood opens up to a small clearing. A company of men are settling down amongst the trees, talking quietly to each other. The sound of soft chatter drifts through the leaves. A lone figure in the centre of the clearing remains standing, drinking from his canteen. 

Schofield’s eyes widen. A cold chill goes through him. They’ve hardly saved any time at all. Blake feels Schofield tense against him. “What is it?” Blake says. “They’re here. Fewer men than last time, but we made it Sco, we made it.” A giddy joy rises up Blake’s voice. “I’ve just got to find Joe – ” 

“No.”

“What?” Blake says, confused. “I remember where Mackenzie is, he’s in the trees that way, where they’re digging in –” He points towards a deeper part of the wood. 

“No, Blake.” Horror is clawing its way up Schofield’s throat. “Last time we were – you were – here early. These men are the second wave. They’ve finished digging in. We’ve got ten minutes tops before the first wave goes over. Mackenzie won’t be here anymore. He’ll be on the front line.”

“But Joe – where’s Joe –” 

“He’ll be in the first wave.”

“Oh my God.” Blake's eyes are wide, terrified. “Oh my God, Sco.” Blake’s fingers clench into Schofield’s arm in rising panic.

“We need to go _now_.” Schofield’s mind is suddenly clear as adrenaline floods his limbs. “This way –” He drags Blake forward, skirting the clearing towards the first of the chalk trenches. 

A startled cry rings out from beside them. The men in the clearing have spotted them.

“Uh – mate, are you alright?” 

Many voices overlap. 

“Of course they’re not alright, Seymour you dolt, just look at them!” 

“They’re soaking wet.”

“Has the attack already started? But the guns haven’t been going – ”

“They’re going in the wrong direction, the regimental aid post is that way – ”

The sound of many feet thumping towards them on the grass. “Hey mate! Stop!” 

Schofield’s eyes are pinned to the white edge of the chalk trench ahead. A Private with ginger hair jogs into view from behind Schofield. “Mate? Where are you going – you’re both injured, do you need help getting to the aid post?”

Schofield ignores him. They have no time. Blake is more direct. “Get the – bloody hell – out of the way,” he grinds out between clenched teeth.

The Private’s eyes flicker down to the lance corporal chevrons on their jackets. “Corp,” he says, “at least tell us where you’re going.”

Behind them, the young man begins to sing. No time! Schofield tries to push faster. Blake stumbles, his leg folding under him. He brings Schofield down after him. They crumple onto the grass with a pained noise. 

Up, they must get up – Schofield hooks one hand under Blake’s elbow and pulls, even as he struggles to get his feet under him, his head whirling – 

There are multiple pairs of hands on his shoulders, on his back, pushing him back down. A pair of legs comes into view. “Sir – Corp – please –” The Private’s voice sounds quietly horrified. Another pair of legs. “Please stay down Corp, we’ll bring you and your mate to the aid post –” 

Schofield fights against the hands holding him down, but his limbs are trembling, weak. “No,” he gasps. “Have – to get – to Colonel – Mackenzie.” 

Beside him, he hears Blake struggling to get up. “Get off me – GET THE FUCK OFF!” Blake’s voice sounds thin, reedy with weakness. 

By now there is a growing crowd of soldiers surrounding them, a little knot of worried faces. “I think they’ve got shell shock, Seymour,” one of them says, looking a little frightened. 

“They’re in no shape to be going back towards the front line, that’s for certain”, Private Seymour answers. He lays a careful hand on Schofield’s shoulder. “Come on, mate,” he says gently. 

Schofield lets out a short cry of frustration. It comes out almost like a shriek. The soldiers flinch back as one, perturbed. “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” Schofield screams. He fumbles for his blue tin with numb fingers, trying to prise it open. “We have orders – to stop the attack – ” His hands are shaking so badly that as he opens the tin, the letter tumbles to the ground, the stamped official mark still visible on its surface. The photographs of his wife and daughters follow, smudging in the soft dirt. 

Beside him, Blake’s fists are clenched, clawing into the dirt. “We’ve got to get – those orders – to the _bastard_ Colonel. The whole thing – is a bloody trap.” He lifts his head, panting. His lips are drawn back in a snarl. “So get – out of – the fucking way.”

“You have to let us through.” Schofield’s eyes are wet. He hears the tremble in his voice, and he hates it. On his hands and knees, he reaches for the letter and his family’s photographs with shaking fingers. His vision is tunnelling, darkening at the edges.

A pause. 

Schofield hears the soldiers’ feet shift around them, dispersing. There’s a gentle touch to his hands. He looks down. Someone has closed his hand over the letter and his family’s photographs. “Here, mate,” says a gruff voice. “Imagine you’ll be wantin’ to put those pictures back ‘n ‘at tin. Don’t want mud getting on those.”

Schofield folds his wife and daughters back under the lid of his tin with trembling fingers. He keeps the letter out, scrunched tightly in his right hand. His vision is still dark at the edges. He rubs at his eyes, but the blackness will not clear.

A pained grunt from his left. Blake. Schofield snaps up on his knees, wildly searching. 

He blinks.

One of the Privates has slung Blake onto his back like in a children’s game, gripping him under his knees. “Oof. What have you been eating, mate?” Blake throws a murderous glare at the back of the Private’s head. Another Private hovers close by, pulling Blake higher on the soldier’s back. He catches Blake’s look and whispers hurriedly to his friend. “Watch what you say Bullen, he’s injured but he’s still a Corporal.”

Schofield stares.

“Figured he won’t be able to walk with that leg.” Schofield raises his head at the voice. Private Seymour looks down at him. “You need to get to Colonel Mackenzie, you say. We’ll get you there. You need some help?”

Schofield swallows past the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he says. He takes the hand offered to him, letting himself be pulled upwards and his arm slung over Seymour’s shoulder. “Why are you helping us?” _He travels the fastest who travels alone._ Schofield has felt the weight of that burden for so long. It was always one. And with Blake, two. This feels strange. 

Seymour gives him a quizzical look. “Sheer effing decency, mate. And I'm not going over the top if I can help it. If that letter says what you say it says, we’re making damn well sure the Colonel sees it.” He hefts Schofield further up his shoulder.

Schofield darts a quick look at Blake, checking over him. Propped on Private Bullen’s back, Blake’s head is level with Schofield’s. His face looks pale and drawn, but a bullish determination is still in his eyes. He nods at Schofield. “I’m alright, Sco,” he says. His eyes harden, and he turns to look forward to the front line, far in the distance. “Let’s go.”

“Colonel Mackenzie is in a dugout on the front line,” Schofield says. “We’re headed there.”

They set off at a brisk trot, the mouth of the white chalk trench swallowing them up. Seymour tries to set a more reasonable pace, but Schofield pushes on as fast as he can manage, his feet dragging furrows in the pale dust. Blake’s hands are still clenched. Schofield knows Blake must hate the feeling of having to be carried, instead of being able to fight his way through to his brother on his own two feet. 

Seymour and Bullen pick up on Blake and Schofield’s desperation. They move faster. 

They struggle to pick their way through the men. Already, the trench is filled with soldiers marching towards the front line, a long mud-coloured column winding its slow way up the line. Schofield tries to raise his voice. “Let us through – we have orders for the Colonel – out of the way –” he cuts off, ribs convulsing. His head pounds.

Blake takes a deep breath, and roars like a lion. “WE HAVE ORDERS! GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY!” He subsides almost immediately, panting with the effort, but it does the job. Jittery men leap out of the way like spooked deer. 

Bullen and Seymour share a look, and take up the shout, their raised voices bellowing like repeating foghorns. This allows Blake to catch his breath. Schofield is quietly grateful. 

They turn the corner into a half-moon carved out from the side of the trench. The holding area is a solid phalanx of men, packed up against a Lieutenant in the centre. 

Schofield feels Seymour pull away towards the Lieutenant. Schofield wrenches against the movement. “No! We’ve got to get to the front line –”

“We don’t know exactly where Colonel Mackenzie is! We’ll have to ask –”

“I already know where he is! We’ve got to keep moving!”

Seymour looks doubtfully across at Schofield, but Blake snaps out a short “Army Command intelligence!” and Seymour’s face clears – they keep pushing ahead. Schofield gives Blake a grateful glance. He takes a deep breath. They had used that excuse before, and it had worked then as well.

As they stumble past knot after knot of men, Schofield comes to the gradual realisation that he and Blake would have never made it by themselves. Already, Schofield’s vision is half greyed-out, fraying at the edges like a torn ribbon. The nausea has come back full force, gagging at the back of his mouth, and the pounding in his head has become almost unbearable. It is all Schofield can do to put one foot ahead of the other and hold on to the damn letter in his right hand. 

They shove past a double row of canvas stretchers and turn the corner. They stop. 

The front line trench.

Rows of men lie flat on the diagonal slope up to no man’s land, khaki bundles on a seemingly endless stretch of white gravel. Other men huddle at the bottom of the trench, backs pressed against the trench wall, shivering in anticipation and fear. 

As they enter the trench, Blake instinctively ducks his head down next to Bullen’s. Seymour tenses, shoulders coming up around his neck. Schofield doesn’t react. His eyes are fixed on the long curve of the trench in the direction of Mackenzie’s dugout, as if he could make it materialise into physical sight by simply staring hard enough. “This way,” he says, lurching forward.

Progress becomes even harder. As they pass, the men’s muttered prayers drift up to their ears. The men lining this trench are part of the first wave. They are only half-aware of their surroundings. The air is heavy with a quiet dread, the tension a dull blade pressed to every neck. Every man is holding their breath for the sound of the officers’ whistles. 

Bullen makes a huffing noise. He grunts and heaves Blake higher up his back. Blake is vibrating with tension, his knuckles white. “Come on, come on, come on,” he mutters. 

Schofield grits his teeth. They are moving too slowly. The men in the trench are scared stiff. None of them are really moving out of the way, even in response to Bullen and Seymour’s shouts. Only a familiar voice of a commanding officer or an officers’ whistle can galvanise any movement from these men now. 

Something very close to despair lodges itself in Schofield’s throat. He darts a look up to the parapet, at no man’s land. There is no way Blake or Schofield could make a run up there in their condition. It’s not possible. What are their options? Think – _Think!_ Schofield bites back a sob, casting about wildly –

– Schofield stares. 

He stops so suddenly that Seymour trips over his own feet. “Bloody hell mate –” Seymour cuts off when he sees Schofield’s face. “What?” 

Beside them, Blake raises his head. His face lights up. “JOE!” he calls out in delight.

Lieutenant Blake is bent over, speaking in low, reassuring tones to one of his men. He straightens on hearing his name, turning. He stops, stunned, all confused joy as his gaze lands on his brother. “Tom!” he says happily. 

Blake instantly reaches out to his brother from his perch on Bullen’s back. Bullen nearly falls over – “Hey, watch it Corp!”

The Lieutenant steps towards them, grinning, reaching out to clasp Blake’s arm. He pauses. “Tom,” he says, “how are you here?” Schofield watches as the smile slowly slips off Lieutenant Blake’s face. He looks at Tom properly, and his voice sharpens in dismay. “You’re hurt. You can’t be on the front line, you should be at the regimental aid post.”

Blake shakes his head, his sweat-soaked hair dripping into his eyes. “No, Joe, listen. The attack’s been called off. You can’t go over. It’s a trap.” The words come out in a rush, tumbling over his lips. He reaches out over Bullen’s head to clasp at Joe’s shoulder. “We’ve been sent by General Erinmore, we’ve got orders for Mackenzie – ”

The Lieutenant blinks, brow furrowing as he tries to process this rapid influx of information. Schofield steps up quickly, stumbling away from Seymour’s support. “Sir,” he says, low and urgent, “we need to get these orders to Colonel Mackenzie before the first wave goes over.” He holds out the letter imploringly. “If we don’t, your men and who knows how many more will die.”

The Lieutenant’s gaze flickers over to Schofield. His thoughts are clear on his face. Who are you?

Blake jumps in before the Lieutenant has a chance to speak. “He’s William Schofield. He’s my best mate. I’ve written to you about him. He’s Sco.” Recognition flickers across Lieutenant Blake’s expression. Blake ploughs on earnestly. “Joe, we’ve got to go now. We’ve got no time.”

The Lieutenant nods quickly. He picks up on the urgency of the situation and slips immediately into command. “Alright. Lance Corporal Schofield, you’re with me. I’ll take you to the Colonel. You two,”– he turns to Seymour and Bullen, jerking his head at Blake – “take him behind the lines to the regimental aid post. Go now.”

Blake eyes widen. “No! Joe, I’ve got to go with Sco, we’ve got to finish the mission together – ”

The Lieutenant turns to his brother, and softens. “Tom, you’re in no state to continue. I’ll come find you later –”

Blake shakes his head in protest. “Joe, you don’t understand – I can’t leave him – ” Blake shoots Schofield a terrified look. His voice goes suddenly very quiet. “What if it doesn’t count?” 

Schofield’s breath catches. Yes. He hadn’t thought of that. What if whatever force sent them into this endless reoccurring mission will only stop sending them back to the beginning if they both make it to the end and deliver the message? There’s no way of knowing. Schofield meets Blake’s eyes. It’s too risky to separate. The very thought of doing it all over again nearly brings Schofield to his knees. 

Schofield steps forward, right next to Blake. “Sir, we were sent together on this mission. We’ve got to finish it together. Please Sir, we need to go now.”

Lieutenant Blake’s eyes flash, and Schofield immediately knows he has overstepped. The Lieutenant gives him a steely-eyed look. “Thank you, Lance Corporal,” he says firmly, a clear reprimand. 

He turns back to Blake, and frowns. “Doesn’t count? Doesn’t count for what?” Then a glimmer of understanding crosses his face, and his expression hardens, his eyes flicking to Schofield. “This isn’t some hare-brained scheme to do with medals, is it? Tom,” he says disbelievingly, “surely you haven’t been told that if you aren’t the one delivering the letter you won’t receive recognition?” There’s a thinly veiled accusation in the Lieutenant’s question. He takes in the measure of Schofield again, re-evaluating him. 

Blake reaches out for the Lieutenant again in plain frustration, trying to grab at his brother’s shoulder. “No! No one cares about any bloody medals! Joe, you aren’t listening!” Desperate tears are building in the corners of Blake’s eyes. He swipes them away with the back of his hands. “Joe –”

The Lieutenant shakes his head, stepping back. Blake immediately looks crushed at the rejection. “No Tom,” the Lieutenant says gently. He looks up at the wall to no man’s land, shoulders tense. He meets Blake’s eyes. “Just do as you’re told for once, Tom, please.” His voice hardens again as he turns to Schofield and the two other men. “Lance Corporal, you’re with me. Privates, go.”

Bullen and Seymour have been looking intensely uncomfortable. They relax at the Lieutenant’s clear orders, and turn to go. Blake rears back on Bullen’s shoulders. “No! Let me down!”

Blake’s brother finally loses his patience. “Tom!” he says, sharp, exasperated –

KABOOM.

The men in the trench flinch as one, curling up over their heads. A spray of chalk erupts over no man’s land, a dozen yards from the top of the parapet. The thunder of the shell’s impact is followed by the high, sharp whistle of the shell cutting through the air, following at the slower speed of sound. 

Bullen ducks at the sound, his grip on Blake slipping. They both tumble onto the hard-baked ground. Blake cries out in pain. Bullen swears, gripping his bleeding hand where Blake had crushed it into the ground under his weight. Schofield ducks on instinct, crouching down close to Blake.

KABOOM – SCREEEEEE – KABOOM – the shells begin firing in earnest. The Germans have begun firing their artillery, gauging the distance to the British frontline trench. No shells have landed in the trench yet, but with each impact, stone rubble and shrapnel flies closer and closer to the men. 

The Lieutenant is crouched next to his brother in an instant. “Tom!” He grips Blake’s arms. “Are you alright?”

Blake seizes hold of his brother’s leg in an iron grip. “You have to take me with you!” He screams over the sound of the German artillery. “I have to finish the mission with Sco!”

KABOOM. 

Another shell, this time a dozen paces to the side right on the edge of the trench. It sends a wave of choking dust over the men. The next shell will be inside the trench.

The Lieutenant looks up, eyes burning. Schofield can see the instant he makes his decision. The Lieutenant straightens, snaps out instructions to a Sergeant next to him. “Edwards, you have command. I have to speak to the Colonel. Don’t send the men over unless you’ve heard from me, do you understand?” 

“Yes sir!”

The Lieutenant turns to Blake and glares at him. “You’re having it your way Tom, but I swear after all this is over I’m going to kill you.” He twists around on the spot and heaves Blake up onto his back, grunting under the weight. He half-turns to Schofield. “You’ll have to walk by yourself, Corporal,” he says shortly. 

Schofield nods. Blake is the Lieutenant’s brother. It’s only to be expected. The thunder of the shells grinds against the pain in Schofield’s head. He fights back another wave of nausea, but stands as steady as he can. “Yes Sir,” he says.

The stumble down the trench, the Lieutenant snapping out crisp orders to clear the way. The men, shuddering as they are against the incoming artillery fire, part like the Red Sea at the Lieutenant’s voice. Schofield looks at the Lieutenant as he stumbles after Blake and his brother. This is an officer with the respect of his men. 

Twenty paces down the trench, the first shell explodes directly behind them, in the place where Sergeant Edwards used to be. Blake ducks against his brother’s head, his shoulders coming up around his neck. Lieutenant Blake turns and sees the gaping hole where his second used to be. He blanches white at the sight. Pain glazes over his face. Then his expression shutters as he visibly pushes the emotion away and brings himself under control. 

They push on through the screaming and the shouting and the roar of the shells. Soon it becomes obvious that they have left the Lieutenant’s platoon behind them. Although these new men do move out of the way at the Lieutenant’s command, their attention is no longer captured at the first sound of his voice. 

They pass by another Lieutenant, who shouts “SEVENTH PLATOON! ONE MINUTE!” The unfamiliar Lieutenant does a double take. “Blake, where are you – what are you doing away from your platoon –”

Lieutenant Blake has already shouldered his way through, Blake bouncing on his back as he half-runs past. He shouts a reply over his shoulder. “Orders from command, Richards! I’ll explain later!” Schofield follows closely behind, brushing past the other Lieutenant. 

Time seems to slow. The constant barrage of artillery seems to thunder slower than the pace of Schofield’s thudding heart. Each step sends a jolting bolt of agony through Schofield’s aching head. The long, long front line trench seems to go on forever, platoon after platoon of young men, too young to die. They are so close. So close. 

Schofield glimpses a tall wall of sandbags ahead. Colonel Mackenzie’s dugout at last. Blake sees it too, by the way he straightens on the Lieutenant’s back. Blake throws a fleeting glance over his shoulder back at Schofield. His eyes are round, glistening with emotion. Schofield can hardly dare to hope. He nods, swallowing. 

“Out of the way, coming through!” Lieutenant Blake barks out one last time, and then they are abruptly in front of a pair of orderlies, the dark mouth of the dugout looming before them. A low murmur of conversation filters out from the inside.

They are a motley crew. “Sir?” One of the orderlies enquires, brow furrowed in confusion. 

Blake learns forward hurriedly on the Lieutenant’s back, almost pushing his brother over. The Lieutenant yelps. “We need to talk to Colonel Mackenzie now – ” Blake says –

– “Hush, Tom.” The Lieutenant says quickly, righting himself. He turns to the orderly, whose eyes had been slowly narrowing at Blake. “We have urgent orders from army command for Colonel Mackenzie. Orders to stop the attack –”

Schofield has been listening intently to the conversation in the dugout. His ears pick out the harshness of Mackenzie’s commanding voice and the quieter tones of Major Hepburn and a few others.

He hears something that makes a chill run through his blood.

“Sergeant, sound your whistle. Start the attack,” Mackenzie says. 

Lieutenant Blake hasn’t had time to finish speaking to the orderly. “– we need to speak with the Colonel –”

The Sergeant appears from within the gloom of the dugout doorway, the light washing over his head and shoulders. His hand is gripped tight around a silver whistle. 

Schofield looks at Blake. Blake’s eyes widen in horror as he spots the whistle in the Sergeant’s hand. Blake meets Schofield’s eyes. 

Schofield rips his eyes from Blake, pivots neatly around the Lieutenant and the orderly and rams his full weight into the Sergeant, pushing him back into darkness of the dugout. 

“Hey! HEY! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the orderly shouts, reaching for Schofield’s collar. 

Schofield ducks away from his grasping hands and fists a death grip into the Sergeant’s jacket, bodily dragging him further into the dugout and away from the doorway. He ignores the Sergeant’s protests.

“COLONEL MACKENZIE!” Schofield screams. His chest heaves. He knows he must look like a madman, his eyes wide and wild, no helmet, no rifle, the soaked bandage on his head dripping water and old blood down his face. He doesn’t care. He’s come too far. Blake’s come too far. He won’t let this happen. 

Schofield holds the letter out, his whole arm shaking. “I have a letter! From army command! Ordering you to stop this attack – direct orders sir!”

Mackenzie gives him a withering look. “Who the hell are you?”

“Lance Corporal Schofield Sir. I have”– Schofield gasps in a ragged breath – “I have orders from General Erinmore, Sir. You have to stop the attack.”

Mackenzie shakes his head in frank dismissal. “It’s too late. We’ve got them on the run.” His stare grows dangerous. “Let my Sergeant go, Lance Corporal, or I will have you court-martialed after this is all over.”

Schofield doesn’t let go. He stands taller, and straighter, and looks Mackenzie in the eye. “Sir,” he says, the letter trembling in his outstretched hand. “You have to read it. Please read it –”

Major Hepburn takes a step towards Schofield and looks back at Mackenzie. “Sir, should we delay the first wave?”

“No. We’ve got the bastards on the run. This is their last stand. Victory is only five hundred yards away.”

There’s a clatter from outside the dugout, and muffled cursing. All heads turn to the doorway – Blake stumbles in, barely upright, dragging his bad leg behind him. Schofield turns to him on instinct, letting the Sergeant go. Blake all but collapses into Schofield’s arms for support. Schofield tugs him up with a grunt of effort, slipping under Blake’s arm again. 

They stand, wavering, but together. 

Mackenzie makes a noise of disbelief. “And who the hell are –” he stops, raises his hand to the bridge of his noise. “Just get the FUCK out.”

Blake raises his voice, imploring. “Mack –” Schofield squeezes Tom’s shoulder sharply – “Colonel Mackenzie,” Blake says. “It’s a trap. The Germans planned this. They know you’re coming and you’re walking right into it.” Schofield squeezes Tom’s shoulder again. “– Sir,” Blake tags on to the end.

Mackenzie pauses at this. He gestures to Major Hepburn.

The Major crosses the room with quick steps and takes the letter from Schofield. Schofield’s arm drops limply by his side. The Major brings the letter to Mackenzie. He opens it, reads it. 

Schofield feels Blake’s breath catch, even as Schofield holds his breath, watching, hoping. 

A long moment passes. The sounds of artillery intensify outside, men wailing, dying.

Mackenzie looks up. His face is inscrutable. “Major,” he says.

“Yes sir.”

“Stand them down.”

The Major slips past, running outside. A cry rings out up and down the trench.

Schofield and Blake shudder in relief. They cling to each other, swaying on the spot. They’ve done it. They finished the mission. Hysterical laughter threatens to bubble up through Schofield’s mouth. He stifles a low giggle, resting his head on top of Blake’s. Blake just trembles, but he huddles against Schofield, fingers winding tightly into his jacket.

Across the room, Mackenzie snaps out other orders. The officers leave the dugout. Behind Blake and Schofield, Lieutenant Blake finally comes deeper into the dugout. He had been standing just inside the doorway. 

Mackenzie sighs. “I had hoped today might be a good day.” He comes forward, until he is directly in front of Blake and Schofield. “Next week, Command will send a different message. Attack at dawn. There is only one way this war ends. Last man standing.”

Blake has gone rigid next to Schofield. He stares down Mackenzie, his nostrils flaring with anger. His lips begin to form words. “F –” Schofield jabs a knuckle into Blake’s ribs. The rest of Blake’s sentence cuts off into a strangled gasp as he doubles over, wheezing. 

“Sir.” Schofield looks directly in Mackenzie’s eyes, unblinking.

Mackenzie is unfazed. He looks them up and down, and turns to Lieutenant Blake behind them. “Lieutenant. Have someone see to their wounds.” He sweeps out of the dugout.

Lieutenant Blake comes into their line of sight. “Tom,” he says. There is a lot packed into that word. Relief. Worry. Chastisement. Love. Pride. He goes for Blake directly, looping an arm under Blake’s shoulders and easing him away from Schofield. 

Blake clings to Schofield for a brief moment, and then lets go. He hugs his brother back.

Schofield watches them, an odd smile pulling at his lips. They’re done. They’re finished. All they have to do now is keep away from that effing oak tree and it’ll be alright. He feels giddy with relief, lighter than air. 

But there’s an uneasy tickle in the back of Schofield’s mind. He frowns to himself. He can’t quite put a finger on it. He swallows, but his mouth is as dry as sandpaper. Adrenaline seeps out of his limbs, like the tide rushing out before a wave crashes in. The pounding in his head intensifies, a drumbeat against the back of his skull.

Blake loosens his hold on his brother and turns around, grinning tiredly at Schofield. Blake’s eyes widen in alarm. His mouth moves, but Schofield doesn’t hear any sound. The whole world is melting into a palette of blending shapes and colours, the shadows creeping in. Gravity is pulling at his heart, slowing it down. 

Schofield smiles. His tin is so warm against his heart.

The darkness rushes up from the ground and swallows him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologise for the cliffhanger but I would do it again >:)
> 
> The lovely dearest Ealasaid has written a wonderful fic of Blake's perspective of Chapters 4 and 5. Do check it out! It's punnily named "Pick a kit. Bring your man."! It should be linked below, or on the latest chapter of this fic, if ao3 functions properly :)
> 
> As always, if any of you would like to chat I have a tumblr - handle is @wafflesrisa. Inbox is open!
> 
> Comments would be most welcome - always up for a chat!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Pick a kit. Bring your man.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791036) by [Ealasaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid)




End file.
